InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Raindrops on Roses ( Chapter 28 )

~~Chapter 28~~

~Raindrops on Roses~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin wandered into the dining room with one of the binders balanced in his left hand and straightening his glasses with this right. He glanced up and stopped short, raising an eyebrow at the vision that greeted him. It wasn't the sight of every single bit of furniture that was pulled away from the walls, not that there was much to start with, but the bureau he'd put by the doorway was butted up against the table, and she'd taken the painting of a couple of deer in the forest off the wall, too. Somehow Isabelle had managed to disassemble the fan, too—the blades were lying on the table arranged on old towels to dry, but that wasn't what had drawn his attention. Far from it, in fact. No, the thing that did it was the woman in question, hunkered down in front of the basement door scowling at the keyhole in the middle of the doorknob with the claw on her index finger gingerly probing said keyhole.

 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded almost mildly.

 

She gasped and jerked back, landing on her rear as she tried to spin around to face him, and he was treated to a very rare sight, indeed, as the incorrigible woman's cheeks pinked in embarrassment at having been caught her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, so to speak. “This isn't what it looks like,” she blurted, maneuvering herself so that she was sitting on her knees with her hands restlessly stroking the long golden bronze ponytail that hung over her shoulder.

 

“Oh?”

 

She shook her head quickly, pinning him with her most winning smile, he supposed. “No,” she insisted with another quick shake of her head.

 

Griffin snorted. “So you weren't trying to pick the lock on the basement door?” he countered, setting the research binder on the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

She grimaced, scrunching up her shoulders as she knitted her fingers together in a surprisingly nervous sort of way. “Well, okay, I was doing that,” she admitted in a small voice, “but not for the reason you think, I swear!”

 

“You mean there's another reason that you'd deliberately try to break into my basement when I've specifically asked you to keep your clammy little paws off the door and your big, fat nose out of there?”

 

She blinked, obviously sidetracked by his assessment. “I have a big, fat nose?” she queried.

 

Griffin rolled his eyes. “It was an expression, Jezebel,” he grumbled.

 

She sighed. “So you don't think I have a big, fat nose?”

 

He snorted. “About as big and fat as your ass,” he grumbled then flicked a hand in blatant dismissal. “Now suppose you tell me the reason why you think that I shouldn't be irritated as hell that you were trying to break into the basement after I expressly forbade it multiple times?”

 

She made a face and rubbed her forehead with a grimy hand—she'd been cleaning the kitchen and dining room—he hadn't realized they were dirty—and when she let her hand drop away, he nearly smiled at the dark streak that she'd left on her flawless skin. “Oh, that . . .” she hedged.

 

“Yeah, that,” he reminded her.

 

Wrinkling her nose, she reached up, grabbing the spindles in the back of a chair to hoist herself to her feet. Much to his everlasting chagrin, she'd changed into a threadbare t-shirt that was about ten sizes too small and a ragged pair of cut off jeans shorts just before she'd unceremoniously announced that she was going to do some cleaning mere minutes after returning to the sanctity of his home from the utterly forgettable shopping debacle. “Well, you see, I was going to put the fan blades back up, but I dropped one of the screws, and it rolled under the door.”

 

He nodded slowly, resting his left elbow on his right arm that was still wrapped over his stomach and curling his fingers over his chin in a thoroughly thoughtful gesture. “A somewhat convincing story,” he allowed with a vague nod. “So if I open the door, the screw will be there.”

 

She nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

 

He spared another moment to consider her claim before shuffling over to the door and fishing the key out of his pocket. The errant screw really was just inside the door having fallen to land on the first step down. To his surprise, though, she didn't even try to peek around him while he retrieved it, grimacing as he forced his clumsy fingers to pinch the screw. Grasping something so small was difficult at best, even with his left hand that was in much better condition than his right one. He breathed a sigh of relief as he straightened up and closed the basement door again. “Stay out of my basement,” he grumbled, dropping the tiny bit of metal into Isabelle's hand and turning to re-secure the lock.

 

“My hero,” she breathed then giggled, planting a kiss on his right cheek before scurrying over to climb onto the table.

 

Griffin grunted, unable to stave back the flush that rose in his skin.

 

Isabelle didn't seem to notice since she was busy trying to balance a fan blade on her fingertips while starting the screws with her free hand. “I don't know why you won't let me down there,” she complained in an idle tone as she concentrated on keeping the blade still.

 

Griffin rattled the knob to satisfy himself that he'd successfully locked it. “Because,” he grumbled, turning away from the door and wondering just how long it'd be before she took a header off the table, “you'll try to girlify it or something.”

 

“Girlify?” she echoed, sparing a moment to glance at him, her golden eyes sparkling with repressed amusement. “Is that even a word?”

 

“It is now,” he insisted with a snort as he pocketed the key once more.

 

“Keh!” she scoffed, using her grandfather's infamous expression. “I haven't tried to `girlify' anything else, have I?”

 

Griffin snorted and stepped over to the bureau, making a show of deliberately lifting the small wicker basket and shaking the lilac scented potpourri inside while pinning Isabelle with a significant look. “I rest my case,” he informed her, dropping the basket onto the bureau once more before reaching for the abandoned research notes.

 

She giggled. “Oh, relax, Pooh Bear! It's not like I put up lacy pink curtains, is it?”

 

“I'd say that's bad enough,” he mumbled, shaking his head at her sensibilities.

 

“I'd only put potpourri in the basement if it smelled bad,” she pointed out, pulling a Philips screwdriver out of her pocket and rising on tiptoe to peer over the top of the fan blade. The tiny t-shirt she wore rose with her movements, and Griffin swallowed hard as he stared at the three inches of skin that was revealed. Her stomach was as creamy soft and smooth as the rest of her skin, and he couldn't quite bring himself to look away from her. “Does it?”

 

“D-does what?” he stammered, summoning the last vestiges of his resolve and forcing his eyes away.

 

“Does your basement smell bad,” she reiterated having not noticed Griffin's lapse in better judgment.

 

Scowling at the mess his thoughts had become from the mere sight of Isabelle's stomach, he snorted loudly and concentrated his attention out the window at the squirrels darting across his back yard. “It's my last bastion of masculinity,” he pointed out, jamming his glasses onto his face. “I don't care if it smells like knee sweat and gym socks; you're still not going down there.”

 

The screwdriver fell onto the table with a loud clatter, and when Griffin looked up, it was to find Isabelle standing in the center of the table with her hands on her hips and an impish smile lighting her face. “Knee sweat? Dare I ask?”

 

Griffin rolled his eyes and snatched up the screwdriver, pausing long enough to inspect the table top for new gouges. “Are you going to tell me that the backs of your knees never get sweaty?”

 

She laughed outright, holding out her hand for the tool she'd dropped. “Maybe so, but I can't say that I know what it smells like, either.”

 

He set the book aside and tapped the screwdriver's handle against his palm as he leaned away to consider her statement, and he wasn't surprised when she crouched down and tried to swipe it out of his hand, either. He pulled it away before she could retrieve it, and he couldn't resist drawing in a deep breath when the end of her hair brushed against his cheek. “You sort of smell like it,” he ventured innocently enough.

 

She stopped stock still for a second before whipping her head to the side to stare at him. “Do I really?” she deadpanned.

 

He nodded, smacking the handle of the screwdriver into her hand. “Yes, you do.”

 

Her laugher echoed through the house, adding an invisible warmth to the place he called home. “You have no idea,” she managed between fits of giggling, “how romantic you are sometimes, Griffin Marin.”

 

He made a show of slowly shaking his head and snatching up the binder once more. “Get off my table before you fall and bloody up the place,” he said as he turned on his heel to make a hasty retreat.

 

“Don't rush me or I will fall,” she retorted as she reached for the next fan blade and got back to her feet.

 

“You're a doctor,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he stepped out of the dining room.

 

“I'd get this done faster if you helped me,” she called after him.

 

“You took it apart; you put it back together, MacGyver.”

 

“Who's MacGyver?”

 

“Never mind; he was well before your time,” he mumbled, grimacing at the stark realization of the vast difference in their ages.

 

She heaved a long-suffering sigh as Griffin broke into a faint little smile. In the few hours since the dressing room incident, he was more than a little surprised that his discomfort in having been caught without his shirt on had dissipated as quickly as it had, and he still wasn't sure why that was. At the time, he'd been so caught up in trying to take the stupid fleece pullover off that he hadn't even noticed that she'd slipped into the dressing room until he'd turned around only to find her staring at him.

 

But it wasn't that alone that had disturbed him, no. It was the look of abject horror on her face that had done it, and for a moment, he couldn't help the rise of panic that she'd gotten a good look at the scars he'd tried so hard to hide; the self-disgust that he'd somehow managed to convince himself somewhere in the back of his mind that the scars wouldn't bother Isabelle . . . or maybe it was just a stupid, blind hope . . .

 

`Damn, damn, damn! She thinks . . . she thinks . . .'

 

Resting his forehead against the thin door, calling himself a fool—ten times a fool—for forgetting that he really was a monster, he'd stood there, frozen, forehead resting against the closed door, for a second—long enough for her softly uttered words to reach him, and in that moment, he'd understood . . .

 

“What happened to you?” she'd asked, her voice muffled by the door.

 

Fighting back the coppery tinge of regret, the consuming, debilitating realization that he'd let his guard down, he snatched up the pullover he'd hastily tossed down and jerked the plain white t-shirt free, yanking it over his head and shoving his arms into the sleeves of his coat and pausing only long enough to grab his nondescript black and brown plaid flannel shirt before yanking open the door. It was sheer reflex that had caught Isabelle by the arms, steadying her on her feet as she stumbled forward—she'd been leaning against the door, hadn't she? With that, he'd brushed past her, striding through the store, ignoring the salesgirl who was asking if everything was all right, the only real thought in his mind, the overwhelming need to distance himself from Isabelle—distance himself before he saw that horror in her eyes again . . .

 

“Griffin?” Isabelle said, darting around him and stopping him with a hand on his arm.

 

He scowled down at her small, soft hand, able to countenance the thought that a creature like her would demean herself by touching a monster like him as the color in his cheeks darkened to a ruddy hue. “Can we just go home?” he rumbled, averting her gaze as he scanned the parking lot over her head, biting back the bitter wash of recrimination, the late realization that he really was a fool . . .

 

“Sure,” she said quietly as a sense of instantaneous relief surged from her, reaching out to him, reassuring him in a strange sort of way that maybe she really didn't believe the same things he did. It was as though she'd somehow sensed that his upset, his irritation, was directed more at himself than at her—at his own carelessness when he'd tried so hard to hide himself from her and ultimately failed . . . “You know, big man, if you want to run around the house without your shirt on, I really wouldn't complain,” she said suddenly, a suspect brightness adding a devious glow to her golden eyes, and he knew—just knew—that she was teasing him on purpose.

 

He blinked quickly, casting her an incredulous look before snorting loudly as more color rose to his already reddened cheeks, and he shook his head before turning abruptly, veering to the right as he led the way to Isabelle's car . . .

 

The ride back to the house had been quiet though not completely uncomfortable, either. It was disconcerting, to say the least, the knowledge that he really couldn't deny: Isabelle hadn't actually been disgusted at the sight of him. What had bothered her most was the idea that . . . that he'd suffered. As much as he'd wanted to deny that; to believe that she really had been sickened by the mere sight of his flaws, her words, quiet and maybe not even meant to reach him . . . they had, and it was those words that had been foremost in his mind since the incident . . .

 

“What happened to you . . .?”

 

Settling down in his recliner and staring blankly at the pages of the research pages without actually seeing them, Griffin sighed and rubbed his temple with a slightly shaking hand. She didn't make a damn bit of sense to him. She never had. Why would a woman like her keep looking at a man like him? Why couldn't she ever just leave well enough alone? And why couldn't he be entirely sure that he really wanted to her to do that?

 

To be entirely honest, he'd gotten the feeling, at least after the fact, that she hadn't been horrified by him, per se, and while he'd felt the humiliation at the time, he couldn't shake the curious thought that she'd been horrified at the scars, themselves—how he'd gotten them and the severity of them—more than she'd been bothered by the perceived imperfection of him on a whole. Why he felt that way might have had something to do with the quiet words she'd said: words that weren't necessarily meant for him to hear. Still in hindsight, he had to wonder, and maybe that was the real reason he wasn't feeling as angry, as guarded, as he might have otherwise.

 

Snorting at the capriciousness of his thoughts, Griffin squeezed his eyes closed and forced his eyes to focus on the words in the binder. Worrying about things wouldn't really change anything in the end, and he knew that better than anyone. Even if they could, what would be the point?

 

No, it was best to leave things alone, wasn't it? Better to let things go on as they had before. The last thing he wanted was to encourage her to ask questions, and those questions . . . well, there really wasn't any peace to be found in the answers . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Jillian Jamison scowled at the cell phone as she clicked the disconnect button with a heavy sigh. She'd tried earlier to call Dr. Avis to wish him a merry Christmas. He hadn't answered then, either.

 

“Still not home?” Gavin asked, shuffling into the bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

“Nope,” she replied, flipping the phone closed against the heel of her hand and tossing the device toward the foot of the mattress before crawling over to her mate. “I'll try again tomorrow.”

 

He nodded, swinging his legs up as he settled back against the mountain of pillows, getting comfortable with the latest issue of Sci-Fi Geekworld magazine.

 

Jillian ferreted her way under his arm, settling against his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Did I get my latest Pop Pho?” she asked since his magazine and hers normally arrived around the same time every month. He'd bought her the subscription to Popular Photography just after they were married—he'd called it a really cheap wedding present, and Jillian had loved it.

 

“Not yet,” he answered absently—she was surprised he'd heard her at all. Licking his thumb so that he could better separate the pages of the magazine, Gavin's kissed her forehead without taking his eyes off the page he was reading. “Did you leave a message on his voicemail?”

 

“I hate talking to machines,” she reminded him, running the tips of her claws lightly down the muscles of his stomach and grinning when they jumped under her ardent perusal.

 

Letting the magazine fall closed over his fingers, Gavin shot her glance full of mock chagrin before dropping the publication onto the nightstand and rolling toward her, stroking her back almost idly, unable to help the small smile that shifted into a slight grimace when he touched the waistband of the underpants she was wearing. “You know, I think it should disturb me a little more than it does that you like wearing my underwear,” he pointed out with an artfully arched eyebrow. “They're huge on you . . .”

 

Jillian giggled and wiggled around, propping herself up on her elbow and leaning in to steal a quick kiss. “They're not that huge, and they're comfortable,” she informed him. “More comfortable than women's, if you want my opinion.”

 

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Huge enough . . . which is more than a little disturbing, in and of itself,” he grumbled.

 

She laughed at his assessment. “Maybe,” she ventured. “They're roomier.”

 

“. . . Roomier?” he echoed.

 

She nodded emphatically. “Yes . . . I told Maddy that she ought to start wearing men's underpants.”

 

“Yeah, well, she can't steal Evan's,” he remarked rather dryly.

 

Jillian laughed and batted her eyelashes at him. “Evan doesn't wear underpants, Gavvie.”

 

He chuckled and pulled her down to kiss her cheek. “I know.”

 

“I could always lend her some of yours to try,” Jillian ventured.

 

Gavin grunted. “God, no! That's even more disturbing an idea than Maddy wearing Evan's underpants . . .”

 

“Are you saying that you wouldn't share your underpants with a friend?”

 

“About as much as I'd share what's in my underpants with a friend.”

 

Jillian's smile turned a little wicked, and she nipped at his chin in an entirely nice way. “I would hope you wouldn't share that with anyone but me, Gavvie,” she said in a throaty whisper.

 

He blushed and wrinkled his nose. “I meant you, Jilli, not that.”

 

She snuggled against his broad chest, savoring the feel of a lazy Sunday afternoon. “Our first Christmas together,” she said with a contented little sigh.

 

“That's not entirely true,” Gavin remarked. “We've spent lots of Christmases together.”

 

“Not as mates . . . not as lovers,” she pointed out.

 

He couldn't help the color that filtered into his skin at her casual assessment, and true to form, she laughed again. “That's true,” he agreed slowly, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders, holding her closer than his beating heart. “I love you, Jilli.”

 

Jillian closed her eyes, savoring the absolute nearness of him, basking in the consuming sense of peace that engulfed her. “I love you more, Gavvie.”

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle balanced the stack of presents against her hip as she reached for the door handle and pushed on it. The door swung open without a sound. Shifting the packages so that she was holding them with both hands, she couldn't help the small smile that surfaced as she headed down the hallway and into the living room.

 

Griffin had moved from the recliner where he had been working on the translations, to the desk, and he spared a moment to cast her a suspicious glance as she negotiated the maze of sparse furnishings in the room in her way to the Christmas tree.

 

“What are those?” he asked, eyeing the gifts like he thought they contained some form of nuclear weaponry.

 

“Presents,” she replied pleasantly, carefully setting the stack on the floor and kneeling down to arrange them under the tree.

 

He snorted, the creak of the chair telling her that he'd turned around to get back to work.

 

“And you can't peek or you'll ruin your surprises,” she went on casually, picking at a ribbon curl and fussing with a bow.

 

The scratch of his pen on the notebook paper stopped abruptly. “My surprise?”

 

Luckily for her, he couldn't see the wide grin spreading on her face. “That's right.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked rather reluctantly.

 

She glanced over her shoulder at him only to catch him doing the same to her. “I mean that I'll be really upset if you ruin your Christmas surprises by messing with your presents.”

 

“Presents?” he repeated, adding extra emphasis on the `s'.

 

“Yes,” she allowed, using her fingertips to straighten the smallest package just a little bit.

 

That earned her a marked snort as the scratch of the pen resumed. “This is just a ploy to get presents out of me, isn't it?”

 

She covered her mouth and laughed. She couldn't help herself. “Absolutely not,” she assured him. “It's the season for giving, not getting.”

 

He snorted at that, too, and she pushed herself to her feet, dusting her hands together industriously before starting out of the room once more. “Now I'm not kidding. No peeking,” she said, pausing beside Griffin's desk.

 

Griffin didn't even bother to glance at her. “I've got no interest in poking around under a pine tree.”

 

Her laughter echoed in the house as she made her way to the kitchen.

 

But the house remained silent while she dug salmon steaks out of the refrigerator. She was starting to think that he really was going to ignore the presents when she heard the soft creak of his desk chair. Casually stepping to the side for a better view, she could just see the mirror that hung over the little table beside the back door, and her grin widened. He was leaning back in his chair, eyeing the presents under the tree—the ones that didn't interest him, of course—and she almost laughed out loud when he swung around to make sure that she wasn't lurking nearby, to spy on him.

 

Apparently satisfied that she wasn't looking since he couldn't see her in the mirror she was watching him in, he continued his ardent perusal while stubbornly refusing to move any closer or to vacate the safety of his office chair.

 

He continued doing that for the longest time, craning his neck and leaning further and further back in the chair in a valiant effort to keep from actually looking interested in the presents. Time and again, Isabelle nearly laughed. He reminded her of a child who had first realized what the presents under the tree meant. If she didn't know better, she'd swear it was the first time he'd been given anything for Christmas . . .

 

He was almost perversely determined not to get out of the chair and not to touch the presents in any way, or so it seemed. Craning his neck to scope out the gifts she'd arranged below the tree, however, was tricky given his vantage point.

 

“What are you doing in there?” he called, glancing toward the kitchen with a thoughtful scowl on his features.

 

“Making dinner,” she replied, resuming her task of unwrapping the salmon steaks.

 

He grunted but said no more, and when she dared another look at the mirror again, she wasn't at all surprised to see him inching backward in the chair. He said something to Froofie—she couldn't hear him but she could tell by the animal's reaction—and the dog lifted his head in question, his tail wagging automatically. He glanced at the tree when Griffin made a motion toward it but didn't move. Isabelle bit her cheek to keep from giggling since it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out that the bear-youkai was trying his damndest to get the dog to do his dirty work for him.

 

Froofie didn't understand what Griffin was asking of him, though, and with a sigh—she could tell by the way Griffin's shoulders rose and fell—he gave up, sparing a moment to glance at the sofa—at the cat?—before turning his attention back to the gifts under the tree once more.

 

It took him a minute of peering over his shoulder at the kitchen before he mustered the gumption to get out of the chair and approach the tree. When he did, he made an exaggerated show of stretching and peeking through the wide archway that led into the dining room and kitchen beyond before he stuffed his hands into his pockets and ever so slowly shuffled toward the tree.

 

She couldn't tell what he was doing. It looked like he was just standing there, looking down at the assembled presents. He didn't seem to be moving, at least that she could tell, and she had to bite back the urge to charge back into the living room so she could get a better view. Of course, he'd stop if she did go in there, and that would be a shame. Still, he was standing there for far too long to simply be staring at the gifts.

 

Smothering a giggle with the back of her hand, Isabelle's eyes widened when she finally noticed the hint of movement in Griffin's stance; little more than a slight shift of his posture, really. He was nudging the gifts with his foot, wasn't he? Still determined not to touch them with his hands, he'd given in and was trying to appease his curiosity . . .

 

He kept up the nudging for a few minutes. Isabelle had to wonder if he'd succeeded in knocking any of the presents out from under the tree yet. As much as she wanted to creep a little closer, she didn't dare. If he caught her watching now, she knew that he'd retreat. The man had more stubborn pride than anyone, and he'd rather bite off his tongue than admit that he was curious about anything.

 

She'd give him credit for obstinacy, she figured. She could almost feel his rising frustration since tapping the packages with his foot was availing him little. It was only a matter of time before he gave in, and she couldn't help the amusement that wrung a smile from her as she wondered rather absently if her parents had ever felt that way, if they had stood back to watch as she and her sisters tried to discover the secrets of the festively wrapped gifts under the tree years ago . . .

 

She'd counted on his curiosity, hadn't she? Spending hours wrapping just a few presents; taking care with the ribbons so they were perfectly curled and arranged, she had wanted him to experience the wonder, the complete child-like awe that she remembered . . . waking up on Christmas morning and running into the living room only to see the presents stacked high under the tree; presents that hadn't been anywhere in the house the night before . . . Griffin hadn't had that, and even if it was a stupid, silly wish, she'd call it good if he could only understand . . .

 

Griffin glanced back over his shoulder—a pathetic attempt to make sure that she wasn't looking. Completely conspicuous and wholly adorable, she could see the heightened glint in his eye though his expression remained almost stony. It really was bugging the hell out of him, and she knew it.

 

Satisfied that she wasn't watching—he still didn't realize that she could see him in the mirror, she supposed—he turned around once more and slowly, cautiously, hunkered down before the Christmas tree and slowly lifted a ribbon-festooned present. Turning it from side to side, he examined it thoroughly before reluctantly leaning down, ducking his head. `Sniffing it?' she mused as her smile widened a little more. `Oh, my . . .'

 

But he wasn't finished. Dissatisfied that he couldn't get a very good smell of the package, he finally gave in and shook it.

 

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Isabelle reluctantly dragged her attention off the bear-youkai. He'd know she'd been watching if she didn't get dinner started, wouldn't he, and if he figured that out, then he'd never show his curiosity around her again, come hell or high water.

 

It was enough, to have seen the lapse in the wizened outer façade that he tried to hide behind. Little by little he was giving in, and even if he didn't realize it for himself, she did.

 

“Did you look at any of the notes I left on the table?” Griffin grumbled, lumbering into the kitchen with Froofie in tow and the kitten trailing not far behind.

 

She glanced up from her task of chopping vegetables for Griffin's salad only to do a classic double-take when she saw what he had nestled protectively in the crook of his arm: one of the gifts, unwrapped, of course, and open. “You know, that was one of your Christmas presents,” she remarked mildly as she whipped around to hide her amusement.

 

He paused for a moment with a handful of honey roasted pecans poised over his mouth. “Pecans are not suitable gifts,” he rumbled before stuffing the nuts into his face.

 

“Oh?”

 

“No, they're a necessity.”

 

“A neces—really?” she countered, giving up the pretense of preparing salad as she turned to face him, arms crossed over her chest.

 

“That's right. Besides, they'd go bad before Christmas,” he stated.

 

She blinked and pressed her lips together but couldn't keep the little giggle from surging from her, just the same. “They'll go bad in less than a week?”

 

He shot her a withering glower that didn't work to stem her amusement. “Yes.”

 

“You're taking all the joy out of the holiday,” she chastised.

 

“You said that those presents were for me. It's not my fault if you failed to mention that you wanted me to wait to open this one.”

 

“I don't suppose I did,” she agreed slowly as she resumed her preparations of the vegetables.

 

“That's right . . . now hurry it up, will you? I'm starving.”

 

She nodded and smiled as she watched him turn on his heel and shuffle out of the kitchen with his pilfered bounty. She'd just have to be more careful next time, wouldn't she? After all, she really hadn't told him that he had to wait . . .

 

Griffin was a little sneakier than she'd thought, which made the battle all the more intriguing, in her opinion . . .

 

 

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A/N:

 

MacGyver: American television show that featured Richard Dean Anderson in the title role as an ex-secret agent who could create or fix just about everything with whatever he had in his pocket at the time … MacGyveris property of Paramount Television.

 

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

Just like a pup …

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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~