InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ New Year's Eve ( Chapter 36 )

~~Chapter 36~~

~New Year's Eve~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle stood back and rubbed her arms through the thinner material of the tweed coat. It wasn't nearly as warm as her normal winter jacket, but when she'd actually managed to talk Griffin into going to one of the area's nicer restaurants, she'd opted to wear something a bit more apropos with the short black dress that had left the man speechless for nearly five minutes when he'd clapped eyes on her . . .

 

He mumbled something—she didn't quite catch it—and pushed the door open before stepping back to let Isabelle inside.

 

He'd looked pretty damn spectacular, himself, she allowed with a secretive little smile. The blazer he'd worn was clean and neat even if it was a little dated. She'd never seen him wear such a thing before, and it had amused her when he'd kept tugging on the sleeves and straightening his tie in a decidedly nervous sort of way. He'd kept looking at her, too—something that certainly hadn't gone unnoticed—and she couldn't help but laugh when he'd suddenly excused himself from the table only to return from the bathroom a few minutes later with freshly combed hair and an entirely endearing, if not completely chagrined, expression on his face.

 

“I had such a good time,” she said as she knelt down to greet Froofie. The poor dog was beside himself. He'd always hated to be left home alone, but the cat, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Whining and prancing around between bouts of rolling on the floor, Froofie nudged her hand then licked her fingers, trying to do everything at one time, she supposed.

 

“Did my Froofie-kins miss me?” she asked in an exaggeratedly contrite tone.

 

“It's Charlie,” Griffin interjected, “and he didn't. He just wants to know if you brought home a doggy bag.” Shoving the door closed to block out the frigid night air, Griffin wiped his shoes off on the welcome mat and leaned against the wall to balance himself while he removed his shoes.

 

“No, no, he missed his mama, didn't you, Froofums?” she went on, kissing him loudly right between the eyes and giggling at Griffin's use of the term 'doggy bag'.

 

“Nice . . . rub your lipstick all over the poor beast,” Griffin grumbled.

 

She laughed and stood up, watching with a broad grin as the dog galumphed past her to greet Griffin. “I did not,” she argued, unbuttoning her coat and starting to shrug it off. Griffin's hand grasped the garment, and he gently pulled it away from her. “Thank you,” she murmured, craning her neck to look up at him. His cheeks were pinked, and he looked acutely embarrassed as he turned away to hang her coat in the closet.

 

“Are you going to go change now?” he asked, his tone even more surly than normal, and his voice muffled by the closet.

 

“Why the rush?” she asked, slipping off her shoes and arranging them neatly beside Griffin's.

 

He snorted. “There's no one to impress here,” he said, pushing the closet closed and slapping his thigh to get Froofie to follow him.

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” she demanded, trailing after him as he headed for the back door. She stopped to turn on the lamp beside the sofa, amused by Griffin's commentary.

 

“Are you going to try to say that you weren't enjoying the attention you were getting?” he countered, yanking the door open and letting Froofie run out into the back yard.

 

Isabelle rolled her eyes and shook her head but didn't laugh though she was hard-pressed not to. He almost sounded . . . jealous, didn't he?

 

“Now, Dr. Griffin, you know very well that you're the only man for me,” she assured him.

 

Griffin grunted. “Jezebel,” he hissed.

 

She did laugh at that while he disappeared into the kitchen.

 

To be completely honest, it had bothered her quite a bit. During dinner, the waiter had approached their table a couple of times with drinks sent over that she certainly hadn't ordered. Both times she'd smiled and told the waiter politely albeit firmly that she didn't want the drinks, but still . . . Griffin had tried to hide his feelings, but she could sense his irritation over the situation, and she couldn't blame him, either. How must it have seemed to him? After all, it should have been apparent that she was dining with Griffin. In her opinion, it had been more than a little rude, and she'd been hard-pressed not to march right over to them and dump the drinks in their perspective laps . . .

 

`Of course it bothered him,' her youkai chided. `You know how sensitive he is about the way he looks. That probably made him feel even worse, after all . . .'

 

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, slowly sinking down on the sofa with a wince. She knew that, certainly. What she didn't know was what she was supposed to have done instead. Would it have done any good to be rude to the men? She hadn't encouraged them in any way. In fact, she'd gone out of her way to make sure that she didn't as much as smile at them. Still, he hadn't seemed to mind the restaurant otherwise, and that was something, wasn't it?

 

Besides, it was New Year's Eve; a night for celebrating the ending of one year and the beginning of another. She'd considered trying to talk Griffin into staying at the restaurant for the midnight celebration, but in the end, she hadn't bothered to mention it. It was enough for her that he'd agreed to dinner, and even then, she had to admit that the idea of having Griffin all to herself at midnight was far more to her liking, anyway . . .

 

“Here.”

 

Isabelle blinked and jerked back as Griffin stuck a mug of tea under her nose. She could smell the honey he'd added to it and smiled. He'd told her early on that she wasn't allowed to get into `his' honey. It was telling, wasn't it? Willing to share that with her though she seriously doubted he'd ever share his honey roasted nuts . . . “Thank you,” she said, taking the mug and holding it in both hands, watching as steam rose from the surface in delicate wisps only to disburse in the air.

 

He nodded but didn't comment, heading over to his desk and tugging on his tie with his free hand. He'd discarded his jacket after letting Froofie out, too . . .

 

“You're not really going to work on the translation tonight, are you?” she asked, arching an eyebrow as she drew her feet up beside her and leaned on the arm of the sofa.

 

“That was the plan, yes,” he allowed without facing her.

 

“But it's New Year's Eve,” she protested with a petulant little scowl.

 

“Just another night,” he countered mildly. “Anyway, we did what you wanted to do. I let you drag me out for dinner, didn't I?”

 

“Oh, come on, Dr. G . . . New Year's Eve is special . . . the greeting of the new year is important, you know.”

 

“You're kind of a pest,” he remarked with a shake of his head. “Anyone ever tell you that before?”

 

“It doesn't count when it's your cousin saying such things,” she said, waving one hand in the air in blatant dismissal.

 

“Your cousin is a smart man,” he intoned.

 

Her lips twitched. “It was Mamoruzen.”

 

“I take that back.”

 

She laughed outright. “You know, you at least have to have a glass of champagne with me at midnight,” she pointed out.

 

He snorted. “I don't drink.”

 

“It's just champagne,” she shot back.

 

“I doubt your parents let you drink champagne as a cub,” he argued.

 

“Actually they did—just a sip. Well, mostly seltzer water with a dab of champagne in it, but that's entirely beside the point. It's a tradition back home, and traditions should be upheld, especially since I wasn't able to go home for the holidays.”

 

He was rolling his eyes; she knew he was. Sometimes he was just a little too predictable . . .

 

“Forget it, Jezebel. I'm on to you.”

 

“Fine, fine,” she said with a melodramatic sigh. “It's fine; just fine . . . who cares if my entire year will be thrown off because I didn't honor my family's long and fabled traditions . . .”

 

“You didn't get spanked nearly enough as a child, did you?” Griffin asked.

 

Isabelle lifted the tea to her lips to hide her smile. “Not even once,” she assured him.

 

He tugged the tie off and dropped it onto the desk. “That's why you're such a pariah,” he maintained.

 

“A pariah? That's such an archaic word, Griffin . . .”

 

He grunted.

 

“Are you going to spank your children?” she teased.

 

“Every day.”

 

She giggled. “I don't think you would. I think you'd be a big old softy when it comes to your pups.”

 

“There will be no pups,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet and retrieving his tea mug before shuffling over to the sofa. “I know I'm going to regret this, but . . . what other `long and fabled' traditions does your family have?”

 

“The midnight kiss?” she said, unable to keep the hint of hope out of her tone.

 

He blushed and shook his head. “Dream on, fat ass.”

 

She laughed. “Oh, and the all-important `New Year's Twister' game?”

 

“New Year's Twister? I'll pass.”

 

She shrugged. “I don't have a Twister game, anyway,” she allowed.

 

“That's not really one of your traditions, is it?”

 

Her smile widened impishly as she leaned toward him, nudging him with her shoulder. “No, but it sounded good . . . it should be one, don't you think?”

 

“Hrumph . . . no.”

 

“We could play it naked,” she suggested.

 

Griffin choked on a drink of tea. “Jezebel,” he wheezed, clearing his throat and coughing madly as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

 

“You're incredibly sexy when you blush,” she couldn't help saying.

 

Griffin grunted and blushed a little darker. “You didn't need spanked; you needed to be beaten,” he grumbled.

 

“Probably,” she agreed lightly. “You know, I always felt so grown up when Mama gave me that glass of weak champagne . . . kind of silly when I was normally sitting there in my footy-pajamas . . .”

 

“Footy-pajamas?”

 

She nodded, leaning forward to set the empty mug on the table. “Yes . . . the ones with the enclosed feet; all fuzzy and warm and cozy . . .”

 

He shot her a look that stated quite plainly that he thought that she was joking. “Sounds very sophisticated,” he remarked.

 

Isabelle laughed softly then sighed as a slight pang of homesickness swelled in her chest. It didn't happen often, but there were moments when she missed the simplicity of the past, and holidays . . . it was easier to miss those things when she thought about the years of her childhood. “Absolutely,” she agreed with a little smile. “It's funny . . . all the years growing up, I kept thinking that I couldn't wait to be an adult, and then once I realized that I had grown up, I can't help but miss my childhood, too . . .”

 

He considered her words carefully, a strange sort of sadness lending a glassiness to his gaze. “Attean told me that New Year's Eve was the night when you were supposed to think back over the past year and let go of the things that that had happened that you couldn't change.”

 

“Sound advice,” she said.

 

He shrugged and sighed, rubbing his forehead with a slightly trembling hand. “I suppose it is,” he replied though he sounded like he wasn't very convinced.

 

She didn't really know what to say to him; he seemed so pensive, so sad. She hated to see him like that, and yet she realized that there wasn't a thing she could do when he stubbornly, almost selfishly, held onto his silence.

 

The moments passed, punctuated by the tick of the clock on the mantle. Griffin drained the last of his tea and set the mug, standing up and lumbering toward the fireplace to drop more wood into the glowing embers. “So what other traditions did your family have?” he asked at last. “Real ones.”

 

Isabelle twisted a lock of hair around her finger. It had escaped the simple chignon she'd swept her hair up into before they'd gone to dinner. “Mostly we'd just sit around and talk about the past year . . . the things that had happened, the things that we hoped for in the new year . . . that sort of thing . . .”

 

“Sounds . . .”

 

“Boring, I know,” she supplied when he trailed off. “I suppose it doesn't sound very glamorous or anything . . .”

 

“I was going to say `nice',” he corrected quietly.

 

His response caught her off guard, and she smiled. “You think so?”

 

“Yes,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “Did you make New Year's resolutions, too?”

 

“Sometimes,” she allowed. “Papa swore every year that he was going to devote more time to his family, but you know, I don't remember a time when he was ever too busy for me or my sisters . . . We sat on the floor in his study while he worked in the evenings, and we'd play games and stuff while Mama read, but any time we asked Papa something, he always put his work away to answer us or play with us . . . I don't think that we ever felt as though we weren't the most important things in the world to him, so maybe he really did keep his New Year's resolutions . . .”

 

Griffin nodded, arranging the logs in the fire with a wrought iron poker. Mesmerized by the way the firelight played on his features, she couldn't help staring at his profile. The shadows seemed darker, deeper, far more mysterious while the angles seemed so much more pronounced . . . Eyes shining, he seemed almost content, and while she didn't delude herself into believing that he had fully come to accept her presence, she knew that he was making progress, even if it was slow, and even if it wasn't something that he'd ever want to admit.

 

He complimented her, didn't he? His temperament was so very different from hers, but that difference wasn't a bad thing. He lent her a sense of calm, of order, of safety that she had come to rely on. He was everything that she wasn't, and yet he didn't seem to realize it, either. She'd never understand why he just couldn't see the beauty that she saw whenever she looked into those eyes of his . . .

 

“Fine,” he allowed, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen between them. “I'll humor you on one condition.”

 

Unable to help the little smile that quirked her lips, she giggled. “What's your condition, big man?”

 

He snorted, cheeks pinking—she knew he'd blush. “No naked anything,” he mumbled. “That means no naked Twister, no naked poker, no naked checkers—no naked anything.”

 

“Okay,” she agreed slowly, her reluctance evident in her tone.

 

Slowly turning his head, he narrowed his eyes on her. “And no mention of naked anything.”

 

She really did try to keep from smiling. It just didn't work. “Now where's the fun in that?” she complained with a laugh.

 

He rolled his eyes but snorted indelicately. “Take it or leave it, Jezebel,” he warned.

 

“All right,” she hurried to say, waving her hands. “I'll be good; I swear!”

 

He didn't look like he believed her, but he gave a curt nod and pushed himself to his feet, dropping the poker into the stand on the hearth before turning around to face her. Outlined in the firelight, he seemed even larger than he normally did—quite a feat considering that he was easily one of the biggest men she'd ever met. Broad shoulders, thick with muscles but not quite as bulky as her cousin, Bastian, he really was a sight to behold . . .

 

All the same, she forced her gaze away, figuring that if she didn't, she might slip and make a reference that would nullify his participation for the evening, and since he was being somewhat agreeable at the moment, the last thing she wanted to do was push her luck.

 

She stood up and hurried to the kitchen, refilling the tea kettle and setting it on a thick wood tray before measuring out enough of Griffin's special mixture of dried leaves and herbs—his tea. That done, she grabbed a napkin, the mini-strainer, a plate of molasses pecan cookies, and the honey pot and carried the tray back into the living room.

 

Griffin took the kettle from her and carefully arranged it in the glowing embers on the hot stones of the hearth while Isabelle set the tray on the table and held out a cookie to him. “Thanks,” he mumbled, plucking the cookie away and reaching for the plate with his free hand.

 

“Oi!” she exclaimed, not at all surprised that he'd unceremoniously claimed the entire plate of cookies for himself. “You're going to give me one, aren't you?”

 

“No,” he stated flatly moments before shoving the whole cookie into his mouth.

 

“But I made them,” she protested.

 

“For me.”

 

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, giving up since she knew very well that Griffin wasn't about to share. Some things were sacred, she figured, and cookies were one of those things . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“So how long did you live with Attean and Maria?” Isabelle asked, sipping her tea as she peered over the rim of the mug.

 

Griffin shrugged. He'd made the fatal mistake of mentioning that he'd stayed with the couple for a time, and he should have known that it would strike her overzealous curiosity in a huge way. “I don't know . . . a few years . . .” he hedged.

 

If she noticed the reluctance in his tone, she didn't give it any credence. “What's your definition of a few years?” she parried.

 

He grunted. “Dunno . . . forty? Fifty? I didn't count . . .”

 

She laughed, obviously amused at his perception of time. “You really have lived a long time, haven't you?” she mused.

 

Griffin shot her what should have been a quelling glance. She laughed at him instead. “Why do you think that?” he asked, giving up on the idea that she'd drop the subject.

 

Isabelle shrugged, the motion of her delicate shoulders all too noticeable in the flirt of a dress that she still wore. She seemed completely comfortable, which just figured. He'd caught himself staring at her time and again, unable to reconcile the Isabelle he knew with the woman sitting on the floor beside him. Normally dressed in slacks or jeans and a soft sweater or even a tee-shirt, she looked entirely unapproachable dressed as she was. The change had been astounding for him, almost unbearably so. It had frightened him, hadn't it? The very idea that she could change so drastically in the blink of an eye like that . . . she looked like she'd just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, and all he'd been able to think was just what the hell was a woman who looked like her doing with a man like him . . .?

 

He could feel the warmth of her—far more than a physical thing; something that lived and breathed and reached out to him, closer than he'd ever let anyone get to him before. Her proximity was comforting when it should have scared him, compelling when it should have repulsed him. Maybe it was stupidity on his part; maybe it was a lifetime of loneliness that had left a part of him completely unguarded against her. It didn't really matter, did it, not when she was so near . . .

 

“Some of the things you say remind me of stuff that Grandpa's said before . . . His idea of `a few years' and yours seem pretty similar.”

 

Griffin grunted and swallowed hard when Isabelle leaned against his shoulder. He glanced down at her only to find her staring into the dancing flames with a secretive little smile on her face and a sense of contentment that he couldn't quite credit. He sat stock-still, unable to move as he forced his eyes away from her. At times like this, he felt so inadequate; his years of self-imposed isolation painfully asserting themselves. He'd been so sure that he didn't deserve to be around others—didn't want to be around anyone else—that it had become second nature to him . . .

 

Isabelle sighed softly, and he frowned when he noticed the almost sad expression in her gaze. She looked like she was remembering something; something that upset her, and he gritted his teeth as an unaccountable surge of rage shot through him; anger that anything could have the power to hurt her in such a way . . . “You're not going to leak, are you?” he muttered, grimacing inwardly at his own cowardice, his own inability to give voice to the things that were foremost in his mind.

 

She laughed softly, more of an exhalation than a real show of amusement. “It's nothing,” she admitted quietly. “Just . . . I guess I got a little homesick for a minute. I mean, I know that I chose to move here, but . . . I guess sometimes—especially on holidays . . .” She sighed and shrugged as though she were trying to shake off the momentary lapse. “Yesterday was Papa's birthday, did you know? He has the biggest party every year. Well, actually, Mama does for him and Uncle Ryomaru. Everyone's there, and it's so much fun . . . Sometimes Papa plays the piano, and my sisters and I would sing with him. Of course, I'm pretty pathetic at it. Can't really carry a tune very well, but my baby sister, Sami? She sounds like . . .” She trailed off and laughed. “It sounds utterly cliché, but Sami sounds like an angel.”

 

“If she's anything like you, I'd find that hard to believe,” Griffin commented dryly.

 

Isabelle laughed a bit shakily. “No, seriously! She's really, really good! I think she gets it from Papa. He's really something when it comes to music . . . he could have been a professional, I think, but he wanted to be a doctor . . . He says music is just a hobby for him, but you know, I remember how much he enjoyed teaching Evan how to play the piano . . .”

 

“And you feel bad for missing your papa's birthday,” he concluded.

 

With a shrug, she sighed softly, her smile taking on a slightly bashful sort of air. “Something like that. You know, on New Year's Eve, we always danced together. When I was really small, Papa would hold me and sort of put one arm around Mama . . . then he'd balance both Lexi and me in his arms while Mama put her arms around all of us . . . He said that the new year would be jinxed if he didn't get to dance with his girls . . .”

 

Griffin grunted, unsure what to say to that. If he hadn't been looking at her, he might have been able to convince himself that she was just trying to manipulate him into doing something stupid. As it was, though, the look on her face—the pensiveness in her gaze despite the trembling smile that still touched her lips as she continued to stare into the flames—he knew better, didn't he? He knew her better . . .

 

He couldn't stand the feeling that there wasn't a thing he could do to comfort her. The vulnerability in the depths of her eyes dug at him, and even if she said that it wasn't a big deal, it was to her or she wouldn't look so very sad. As he watched her fighting to get a grip on her emotions, he couldn't help the irrepressible sense of utter indignation that she should feel as though she needed to put on a good face for him. It made him feel completely selfish, like the lowest filth on earth . . .

 

Pushing himself to his feet, he strode across the room to the small enclosed cupboard where he stored some of his books and the old radio that he kept around to listen to the weather forecasts. He'd had the thing for what seemed like forever, and he couldn't actually recall when he'd picked it up in the first place. While the technology that was used to project radio waves had changed dramatically over time, the old unit had never failed him, and he'd never felt the need to replace it. Still, he couldn't help but worry that he wouldn't be able to find a station that was something other than talk radio.

 

She scooted around, sitting on her knees as she watched him in silence as he fiddled with the manual tuning knob. Grimacing as the sound of static grated on his nerves, he flipped past a station playing something slow and almost soothing before backtracking until the static dissipated. The song was old—really old—slow and soft and pretty. He'd heard it before though he couldn't rightfully recall when or where, and as he slowly turned around, he tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that reminded him that he didn't know how to dance; that he was probably going to make a fool of himself.

 

But he brushed the unsettling thoughts aside and hesitantly stepped toward her, frowning as he tried to figure out exactly how this sort of thing was supposed to be done, and realizing just a moment too late that he had never, ever danced with anyone before in his life.

 

The expression on her face—the cautious sense of hope combined with the tenderness in the brilliance of her eyes—was just too difficult for him to ignore. The way she looked at him filled him with a strange sort of emotion, the absolute feeling that he could do anything—anything—if only she asked him to. Clearing his throat, he held out his hand, tamping down the acute embarrassment that warred with the underlying feeling that he was about to do something colossally stupid. “Just don't step on me, all right?” he mumbled.

 

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached up, slipped her hand into his. Her fingers looked so very tiny beside his, felt so delicate . . . He pulled her to her feet and swallowed hard. “I-I've never . . .” he grimaced. “I don't know how to do this,” he admitted quietly.

 

She smiled sweetly and positioned his left hand on her right hip then bent her left elbow as she stepped closer to him. His fingers closed around hers, and he clenched his teeth together, concentrating on not stepping on her feet when she started swaying slightly in his arms. “I don't think this is dancing,” he said after a minute of silence.

 

Isabelle sighed, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “There's not much too it,” she agreed softly.

 

It felt . . .

 

Griffin scowled, feeling the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself so long ago starting to crumble. She was too near, too warm, too acquiescent. Her youki gave way to his, wrapped around his in an unsettling yet wholly familiar way, as though he'd known her for a lifetime or more . . . as though he had just been waiting for her . . .

 

She sighed and stepped just a little closer as though she needed to be as close to him as she could possibly be. Charlie lifted his head where he was curled up near the hearth, and he wagged his tail once then twice as though he were giving his unspoken blessing. The cat rolled over onto her back, shoving her head under Charlie's chin, and the dog settled down once more, dozing off as Griffin closed his eyes and let his cheek rest on Isabelle's head.

 

The song ended way too soon, and he stifled a sigh as reality intruded on his mind once more. The pragmatic part of him was screaming that he needed to get away from her, and yet . . .

 

And yet he just couldn't do it. If she noticed the song had ended, he couldn't tell, or maybe she was dancing to a song that only she could hear, but whatever the reason, he couldn't quite bring himself to let the moment die, couldn't stand the idea of stepping away from her. She was far more precious to him than anything else had ever been, and even if he couldn't hold onto her forever, maybe letting a moment in time last just a little longer wasn't a bad thing, either . . .

 

“I-Isabelle?” he finally said, wincing inwardly at the harshness of his voice in the quiet.

 

“Hmm?” she intoned without opening her eyes.

 

He sighed. “Th-the song . . . it's over . . .”

 

She sighed, too and leaned back to look up at him but made no move to break the contact of her body against his. He opened his mouth to tell her that she'd had her New Year's Eve dance but stopped, captured in the brilliance of her gaze. Cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted as a million stars gathered in her eyes, he couldn't look away from her, could feel every coherent thought slip from his mind as easily as dandelion fluff captured on the summer breeze. The beat of her heart was erratic and wanton, radiating from her to him in a quiet sort of reverberation, beckoning him closer, closer . . . closer . . .

 

His body seemed to react of its own accord, drawn by the invisible strands of an unvoiced desire. Leaning down, touching her lips with his, unable to stop himself as he gave in to the need to touch her, he let go of her hand to draw her nearer.

 

She slipped her arms around his neck, her lips warm and soft and unbearably sweet. Willing to accept what he was able to offer her, she kissed him back in an infinitely tender way.

 

He'd never been good with words, had he, but it didn't seem to matter. As though she understood him completely, unerringly, bent to his will she sighed softly, letting him brush his lips over hers time and again.

 

He let his head fall back and drew a deep breath—maybe he was trying to save a semblance of his sanity; he wasn't sure. Isabelle cuddled against him, her breathing unsteady as she leaned against him in an entirely boneless sort of way. “I-Isabelle,” he whispered, struggling to give voice to the emotions roiling through him.

 

She laughed unsteadily. “I know, Griffin,” she replied. “I know . . .”

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought fromGriffin:

…Dancing…?

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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~