InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Collision ( Chapter 40 )

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There is no clean version of this chapter. You have been warned.

 

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~~Chapter 40~~

~Collision~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“She was my sister . . .”

 

Sitting on the window sill staring up at the nearly full moon high in the sky, Isabelle sighed softly and pulled the edges of her robe closer around her shoulders. Unable to sleep, she'd given up after lying in bed, tossing and turning for better than an hour. She just couldn't stop thinking about all the things that Griffin had said.

 

His sister . . . It was evident that he loved her dearly and that he missed her, but Isabelle couldn't shake the feeling that there was even more to it than he'd admitted to her; some bit of the puzzle that was eluding her. Why had he looked so sad? Why had she sensed an underlying feeling of guilt from him? Easy to say that he simply felt guilty for having lived long after the rest of his family had died, but was that the extent of it?

 

The inky outline of the forest against the paler midnight sky normally lent her a feeling of peace on nights such as this. With the moon high in the sky, illuminating the darkness with the gentlest light, she'd often sat and pondered things on nights such as this. It lent her a semblance of calm and clarity, but tonight . . . It just wasn't helping.

 

His words, his actions, his expressions . . . they'd all been etched into her mind. She didn't have to be told to know that he'd likely never talked about his family before, and as much as the knowledge pleased her, she couldn't help but think that it was sad, too. `To have lived for so long in a self-imposed isolation, but why? Why would a man like him, someone with so very much to give, do that to himself?'

 

His sister—Kumiko—the little girl who danced in the yellow kimono . . . Isabelle could picture her in her mind, cheeks rosy with a happy flush, soft gales of laughter filling the air as she spun around in circles . . . Did Griffin ever dance with her? Had he humored her despite his own feelings of embarrassment because it had pleased her for him to do so?

 

“She would have liked it: that dollhouse . . .”

 

Wincing as the sadness of his softly uttered statement assailed her—weighed down on her—once more, Isabelle let her head fall back against the window frame. Something didn't make sense, and though she was having trouble putting her finger on it, the truth of it was there. Maybe it was his reluctance to talk about his family; a reluctance that seemed to go far deeper than a simple aversion to letting anyone into his life too deeply. Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of absolute sorrow that still touched him even after what had to be centuries since her death . . .

 

“I don't remember. I sort of . . . wandered for awhile. Up through Asia . . . across the Bering Strait . . . Traveled around Canada . . . Didn't really aim to come here, if that's what you meant.”

 

She grimaced. Though he hadn't said as much, his manner, his very aura, had spoken volumes. She got the impression that he hadn't left Japan as much as he'd felt compelled to leave it behind, and what could possibly make him want to do that more than memories that hurt?

 

`Or maybe,' she thought, opening her eyes and letting her chin fall forward once more, `I'm reading way too much into everything.'

 

`You don't really believe that, do you?' her youkai chided.

 

She sighed. No, she really didn't.

 

`But what am I missing . . .?' she asked herself instead.

 

Her youkai was slower to answer, as though it, too, was pondering the enormity of what she'd been told. `Think, Bitty, think . . . what was it he said to you before?'

 

`Before . . .?'

 

`Remember? When you lost the McKinley baby . . . what did he say?'

 

Closing her eyes, Isabelle tried to remember; hating to relive that awful night, and yet knowing that there was something there; something she'd missed at the time . . . He'd come to her, tried to comfort her, and in the end, he had, but . . . but what was it that he'd said when she'd finally realized that he did understand the hurt and frustration and absolute feeling of guilt that had riddled her emotions . . .?

 

“Don't you do it; do you hear me? Don't you blame yourself. It wasn't your fault, and . . . It's never going to make sense. Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . something like that will never make sense, no matter how many years you live.”

 

“Something like that will never make sense . . . no matter how many years you . . . live . . .” she repeated in a whisper as a cold chill passed down her spine.

 

“You're wrong, you know. Doctors aren't gods, and just because you couldn't save one baby doesn't make you a devil, either.”

 

She winced. `Because I couldn't . . .'

 

“Their pleas never go away . . . Never . . .”

 

`He . . . he knew because . . .' trailing off with a wince, Isabelle lifted a trembling hand to cover her mouth as the last bit of the mystery fell into place. It made sense, didn't it? As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, the truth of it . . . `Oh, Griffin . . . you . . . no . . .'

 

She heard the door scrape softly against the floor and didn't have to look to sense Griffin's presence. “Uh . . .” he uttered, obviously surprised that she was still awake. He started to pull the door closed again, muttering under his breath about making sure she had turned off her light.

 

“Wait,” she called softly, turning her face toward him. “Please . . .”

 

He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the door handle, and she couldn't see his face. The wan light from the hallway cast him in darker shadows, and all she could discern were the pinpoints of light reflecting in his eyes. “Shouldn't you be in bed?” he asked, letting go of the door and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“I couldn't sleep,” she confessed, uncurling her legs as she shifted to give him her complete attention. Hands clasped in her lap, she sighed and slowly shook her head. “Could I . . . ask you something?”

 

He grunted but remained silent otherwise. It was as close to a `yes' as she was going to get, she supposed. Pushing herself to her feet, she went to him, her bare feet whispering on the floor. Stopping before him, she stared up into his face as she sought to find a way to voice her thoughts. “You . . . you couldn't save her, could you? Kumiko . . .”

 

He flinched, his head jerking to the side as though she'd struck him. Slowly, gently, she reached out, cupping his cheek in her hand and making him meet her gaze once more. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered, her chest constricting painfully as the raw, jagged edges of his youki drew in close around him—protecting him?

 

He didn't respond right away. His eyes darted from one side to the other in a vain attempt to keep from looking at her; as though he feared what he'd see if he dared . . .

 

“You told me,” she went on, “that the world was filled with enough regrets; that adding mine to them all wouldn't change anything. You were right, you know . . .”

 

He snorted and shook his head, still refusing to meet her gaze. “Or maybe I was full of it.”

 

“No, you weren't,” she insisted, stroking his cheek, trying to show him that he really wasn't alone, no matter what he wanted to believe. “How old was she?”

 

He sighed and pulled away from her, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he wandered over to the window. Standing with his outline bathed in moonlight, he seemed so mysterious, so far removed from her, and yet the sadness that enveloped him was just a little too real. She was beginning to think that he wasn't going to answer her, and she wasn't at all certain that pressing him for answers was a good idea. As the silence lengthened and grew, she stared at him, willed him to understand that no matter what he wanted to believe, that she wasn't going to leave him; not ever.

 

“She . . . she was four,” Griffin said, his voice cracking, harsher than normal, thickened by repressed emotion.

 

Isabelle winced, understanding the thread of hostility that delineated his words. “Four,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Just a baby . . .”

 

Rubbing his forehead, he heaved a sigh as though he were fighting to control his emotions. “She . . . she liked to put flowers . . . in my hair . . . I hated it, but . . . it made her happy, and . . .”

 

She went to him, touched his elbow, desperate to comfort him and feeling completely useless in the face of his absolute sorrow—sorrow that hadn't lessened or waned, even after the passage of so many years. “How old were you?”

 

Griffin shook his head, staring at the moon, his eyes uncannily bright, lost in a sheen of tears that stubbornly refused to fall. “I was . . . I don't remember . . .”

 

She frowned, sensing his lie but unwilling to call him on it, either. She had a feeling that it wasn't that he was trying to keep things from her. It was more like he was trying to keep himself from thinking about it too much . . .

 

He shrugged and sighed once more, letting his gaze fall away from the sky as he slowly shook his head. “It was . . . it was a long time ago . . .” He trailed off, his youki wound so tightly around him that it seemed to repel hers. He held to it as tightly as he held to his privacy, his secrets, and yet there was a sense of complete desperation that she could feel, too. “I can hear her sometimes in my dreams,” he said in such a way that Isabelle had to wonder whether or not he even realized he was speaking out loud. “But I can't reach her . . . I can't reach her . . .”

 

“Griffin . . .” She stepped in front of him, wrapped her arms around him, feeling utterly helpless but wanting to show him that she was there. He resisted her for a minute, his back rigid, his stance set. She held onto him, buried her face against his shoulder, willed him to understand everything that she'd ever tried to tell him. A harsh sound escaped him, caught somewhere between a frustrated growl and a soft little whimper that he just couldn't hold in any longer—a sound so very foreign from the man that she knew that she flinched against the rise of absolute pain that slammed through her—pain for his loss; pain for the innocence that he'd left behind so long ago.

 

And suddenly he hugged her back, his arms locking around her, tightening so fiercely that she gasped but held on. His embrace was almost painful, and yet she wouldn't trade it for the world. `Whatever he needs,' she told herself wildly, squeezing her eyes closed as he trembled, as he fought to contain the fresh tide of emotion that she'd unleashed in him. `Anything; anything . . .'

 

Pushing herself back far enough to look at him, she couldn't help the quiet whine that slipped from her at the unadulterated anguish writ on his countenance. His eyes seemed to probe hers, searching for some semblance of understanding that she might be able to impart him, but she had none—no reason, no rationale that might lend him a fragile sense of peace, of understanding. On some level, he wanted her to help him. She could tell even if he didn't consciously realize it, himself. His youki stretched toward her, enveloping her in a wholly primitive sort of way, as though it was enough to give him a measure of strength when his felt as though his was gone.

 

A hundred emotions passed over his features, each one fleeting, dissipating before it could be properly discerned. A want, a need, an unspoken promise; a pleading for something that couldn't be defined . . . coherent thought became more transient than the wisps of a summer breeze—something that would be better left unvoiced, unmentioned.

 

His lips parted, his breathing harsh and stunted, and for a moment—just for a moment—he struggled for a better grasp on the world that he'd never learned to understand. The poignancy in his guarded expression tore at her as the pain that he forever sought to hide surged out, flowing around them with a malignant intention. As if in response, she shook her head slightly, slipped her arms around his neck, sank her fingers into his hair, tugging him toward her, his lips dropping over hers, and she pressed herself as close as she possibly could as a single tear traced a path down her cheek.

 

Reacting on instinct—the primal need to comfort her mate—Isabelle relented, letting him take control of the hesitant kiss. His grip loosened slightly but held her close, cradling her against him in an infinitely gentle way. His arms crossed behind her back; his hands lingered on her sides as though he were afraid to let her go; his lips softening in a long, slow kiss that permeated the deepest corners of her mind, obliterating any thought that might have intruded. The trace sweetness of his mouth goaded her; his lips still touched with the lingering taste of honey . . .

 

Fangs grazing over her lips, swollen from the crush of his mouth on hers, Griffin shuddered, drawing her closer, trying to make her a part of him; an extension of himself: every bit as necessary to him as air, as water, as the sun. On the basest of levels, he understood what she was trying to tell him; that she wanted to be with him, that she needed him . . . and even if she'd never need him nearly as much as he needed her, that was . . . all right . . . wasn't it . . .? At least for now . . . just for now . . .

 

He didn't have the strength to push her away; couldn't think of a single reason why he would want to. Mind filled with nothing but the image of her, of the scent of her, of the feel of her, the battle was lost before it ever began. She kissed him once, twice, a thousand times, her lips opening to him as her breath fanned over him, condensing on his flesh like dew in the first pale streaks of dawn. She felt so right to him, so perfect, and it was enough to both thrill and frighten him at the same time. Her fingers massaged his neck, twining deep into his hair as she clung to him, as the scent of her tears mingled with the inebriating proximity of her body on his senses.

 

Dragging his mouth away from hers long enough to kiss the tears off her cheeks, Griffin winced, ruthlessly squashing the whisper in the back of his mind that he would certainly regret it if he didn't stop himself soon. Recriminations he had in abundance, and for once in his life—just once—to possess such a beautiful creature . . .

 

The satin covering her body felt feverish to his touch, his hands lingering on the overheated material that she'd brazenly called a robe. He'd muttered a thousand curses under his breath the first time he'd seen the ensemble—little more than a tease of satin she wore over an even worse confection of the same satin with a flirt of lace edging the high slit that extended up to her hip. A Christmas present from her cousin, Jillian—another reason to believe that he was truly cursed, in his opinion . . .

 

But if he'd thought that the sight of the nightgown and robe was too much on his senses, the feel of it was so much more devastating. Her body seemed to flow against his like the ebb of a river against the shore, breaking and yielding yet returning to its original form as it receded . She was as strong as water, wasn't she? And he . . . he was the rock that had been eroded away by the gentle but steady presence of a more indomitable spirit . . .

 

“I-Isa . . . belle . . .” he breathed, struggling to understand the forces that drove him.

 

Her hand pressed against his cheek again, her nimble fingers splayed, tracing the outline of his scars in the darkness. He jerked his head to the side, but she was persistent, and when he finally opened his eyes, it was to see the tears still spiking her eyelashes, clinging to them in the moonlight; sparkling like diamonds.

 

But she didn't look disgusted. Staring at his face as her fingers continued to trace the network of scars, she blinked, shook her head, rose on tiptoe to press her lips against one of the jagged seams.

 

“You have a beautiful soul,” she murmured, placing a succession of nibbling kisses along the corner of his mouth.

 

He grunted, wanting to push her away but powerless to stop her. She was too fresh, too brilliant, and he'd wanted her for far, far too long. Her fingers trailed down his cheek, along the contour of his jaw, and he shivered, wondering how it was that such a small woman in comparison could bring a man like him to his knees with nothing more than a gentle touch, a whisper, a tear . . .

 

Isabelle kissed his jaw, nibbled at the roughened flesh of his chin. Gasping as her hands pushed up under his shirt and undershirt, he couldn't help the ragged growl that rumbled through the air as her fingers brushed over his flesh.

 

“N . . . n . . .” he began to say, unable to finish the thought to save his soul. Devil . . . Angel . . . Isabelle . . . He wasn't sure what she was. All he knew was that he needed her closer. She was all the things that he could never be, and for once, it did not frighten him.

 

The scent of her was too comforting, too enticing to ignore. With every touch of her hands, with every breath she drew she twined herself deeper and deeper into the parts of himself that he'd tried to forget, and it barely registered in his mind when she pushed his shirt off his shoulders, as she tugged on his undershirt in an impatient sort of way, bringing it up over his head before he could protest; his brain full of nothing but Isabelle—nothing but the growing ache that burgeoned somewhere deep inside him.

 

“Griffin,” she breathed just before closing her mouth over the pulse in his throat. He groaned softly, letting his head fall back as a violent surge of something wanton shot through him. Her hands slid over his skin, gently kneading the muscles of his stomach, his chest. She leaned into him, body pressed against body, radiant heat reaching out to him, wrapping him in an absolute stupor.

 

Her robe fell away leaving her in the satin nightgown that clung to her in an unearthly sinful sort of way, but even that was too much. The satin seemed to scorch him, burning him wherever it touched his skin. Overheated by her body, he gasped, groaned as the hardened buds of her nipples rubbed against him. The absolute sensation was just too much. The filmy fabric of her nightgown merely added to it, combining with the cadence she created as she sucked on his neck, her heart beating in an erratic pattern.

 

She felt good—too good—too real, too vibrant, too alive . . . a breathing wonder in the night . . . Griffin couldn't do much more than hang on, losing himself in the intensity of the moment. He could feel his hands shaking, could feel himself trembling under her perusal, and with a fleeting second of clarity, he realized that she was quaking, too.

 

Her hands dipped lower. He felt the tug on his fly but in his addled mind, it just didn't make any sense at all. “Isabelle . . .?” he murmured, struggling to open his eyes.

 

She uttered a sound caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. Lifting her chin to meet his gaze, she stared at him through heavily lidded eyes. Crushing her against him with one arm, delving his hand into the thickness of her hair with his free hand, he brought his lips down on hers once more, his groan caught up in the kiss.

 

She clutched at his shoulders as though she thought she was going to fall if she didn't, gripping him tightly but somehow managing to find the clarity of mind to keep her claws from breaking his skin. Her body strained against his, obliterating reason and shattering his defenses, and he half-stepped, half-stumbled in the general direction of the bed.

 

His blood hammered in his ears, seared his veins as everything within him reached out to her. She gasped as the two of them tumbled onto the bed; he managed to shift enough to land on his back, sheltering Isabelle from the impact without losing the connection of their kiss. She melted against him, nestled against his heart, her hands stroking his shoulders, his chest, her hips grinding against his in a wholly evocative way.

 

Time seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them in a realm where the only things that mattered were the things that the senses could discern. Her scent shifted and deepened, her skin burned against him. Her hair fell over him in the softest waves, and while a part of him would be content to stay like that forever, the rest of him wanted so much more . . . Every touch of her hands sparked an ache, a need, and with every passing moment, that need grew, shifted into a painful want.

 

He didn't know how to explain it to her; how to make her understand. He needed—wanted—more, but words were futile, just out of his grasp.

 

Dragging his claws up her sides, unsure why but needing to touch her, he realized in the back of his mind that her body was reacting on its own, arching against his touch, demanding whatever he was willing to give. The satin covering her skin was a nuisance, and he tugged on it in abject protest.

 

She seemed to understand him. Kissing him slowly, deeply, she was hesitant to break the contact. With a little whimper, she pushed herself away and sat up, her breathing and his echoing in the quiet room. He lay there, unable to shake the haze that had settled over his mind, and as though in a trance—maybe a dream—he watched as she rose on her knees, letting the thin straps of the nightgown fall down her arms; letting the nightgown slip off her body only to pool around her on the coverlet.

 

She was perfect, wasn't she? He'd known on some level that she was, and yet . . . and yet seeing the truth revealed was so much more devastating than he could have possibly imagined. Full breasts, rising and falling in the silvery moonlight filtering through the windows . . . her narrow waist—had he realized just how small it really was? He could easily span her waist with his hands . . . the gentle flare of her hips . . . the delicate swatch of her pink silk panties . . .

 

And still he watched as she scooted off the bed, dropping the nightgown on the floor as she hooked her thumbs in her waistband and slowly pushed them down the length of her legs.

 

“God,” he breathed, unsure if he'd spoken out lout or not as she straightened her back proudly. She didn't make a move to cover herself, standing still for a minute, as though letting him commit her to memory, golden eyes glowing softly, full of emotion that Griffin was reluctant to define. The shadows that might have been harsh were tempered just for her, lending her a radiance that transcended anything that he'd borne witness to before, and somehow he knew that it wouldn't matter how long he lived or what he tried to tell himself, the sight of her in that moment would forever be the most beautiful thing he'd ever see.

 

She laughed softly, huskily, and stepped over to the nightstand, rummaging around it the drawer before crawling onto the bed once more. He heard the crinkle of plastic but didn't have time to think about it as she tugged at the button of his pants. Opening his mouth to stop her, he gasped instead when her fingers slipped under the band of his underpants, slipping them down his body and discarding them on the floor, too. His protests died on his lips as she wrapped her fingers around him, squeezing and releasing. With a strangled growl, he lifted his hips, unable to control himself as his body's reactions took over. Digging his fists into the coverlet, every muscle in his body straining for a semblance of control that she stripped away with her touch, he moaned, closing his eyes against the sight of her there, kneeling beside him.

 

He vaguely heard the sound of plastic again, but he couldn't summon the will to open his eyes. Stroking him up and down slowly, deliberately, she was driving him mad. A thin sheen of sweat broke on his brow, and he gasped, gritting his teeth together, willing himself to calm down. He felt the condom being rolled over the length of him, and he groaned. He wasn't sure how much more he could take . . .

 

“Open your eyes,” she said in a husky whisper.

 

Griffin did, watching as Isabelle crawled over him, her breasts dragging against his skin in a caress that unleashed another round of desire so intense that he gasped yet again. Leaning down to kiss him, she sighed softly. He could feel the absolute heat radiating from her, and she opened her eyes, smiled down at him, pushing back against him, down on him. Throwing her head back as a throaty cry spilled from her lips, she reared back, her body trembling around him.

 

The feel of her was devastating on his senses, sending every nerve in his body into a riot that he couldn't control. Breathing hard yet feeling as though he wasn't breathing at all, he gasped, groaned as she slowly started to move, grinding her hips against his in a vortex of sensation, he felt as though every part of him was dying only to be reawakened once more.

 

She pitched forward against his chest, her breathing coming in smothered gasps, and still she rocked against him, creating an unbelievable heat, a consuming need that swelled larger, loomed darker, floated in an unattainable space just out of his grasp. It was torture, plain and simple. Her movements were only serving to fuel the fire that licked at him, burning hotter with every second, with every undulation of her hips, with every ragged breath that fanned over his skin.

 

Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled to the side, pinning her against the mattress as she arched against him, as her mouth fell open with a small whimper. An invisible need goaded him, drove him further in a completely primitive sort of way. Bracing his weight on his arms, he rose up, pushed into her, growled low in his throat as need took over.

 

He'd never felt anything like it before: the overwhelming heat, the absolute friction . . . she braced her feet against the bed, lifted her hips, rocking them against his. “Griffin,” she breathed, “please . . .”

 

Her ragged entreaty wrenched a moan from somewhere deep within, and he squeezed his eyes closed, unable to reconcile the myriad of emotions raining down on him. Everything he thought he knew, everything he'd ever believed, and all the things that had never made a damn bit of sense seemed to converge in her. Beauty and light, loneliness and sorrow and the paradox of a lifetime spent in the shadows blended together into the intricacy of her.

 

The throb of her heart resounded in his ears; a quiet entreaty that he answered with all the ferocity that he couldn't quite contain. Everything about her bespoke a certain familiarity wrapped up in a torrent of untried emotion.

 

Reacting on an instinctive level—he understood the unrelenting ache that surged in her—he pulled back only to push against her once more. She cried out, her body convulsing around him. It only served to heighten the need that swelled inside him. Bending her legs, locking them around his waist, she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, her moans and sighs resounding in his ears.

 

He could feel the pressure welling deep inside him, moved faster to alleviate the ache that just kept building. It bordered on painful, but he couldn't stop. Her body reacted to every nuance, accepting everything about him as a matter of course. The muscles in his arms bulged and rippled, and he shook his head, trying to escape the consuming need that spiraled and strengthened. He didn't know how much more he could take. The pressure was enormous and intense . . .

 

With a broken cry, Isabelle tightened her legs around him, brought her hips up to meet his, her body jerking, contorting, drawing him deeper, deeper. It was enough to break through the pressure, enough to wring a harsh growl out of him as he strained against her; as he felt himself coming undone.

 

Holding still as he lost himself in the throes of absolute abandon, he dug his claws into the coverlet, reveling in an absolute pleasure that was almost painful.

 

Collapsing against her, his body too drained to stop, Griffin breathed in the scent of her. His entire being felt leaden as little tremors erupted all over, he heard a distant sound but in his addled mind, he couldn't quite discern it.

 

Isabelle was laughing—or was she crying? -holding onto him so tightly that he grimaced. She was kissing him all over his face, snuggling closer and closer to him though he couldn't rightfully recall having turned over onto his back, and she must have removed the condom, because it wasn't there, either.

 

With the intrusion of reality came the harsh reminder of the enormity of the moment, and while he knew damn well that there was nothing good in life without the regrets that always came later, he just couldn't bring himself to give voice to those—at least, not for the moment.

 

The feel of Isabelle cuddled against him was just too inviting; and he could already feel himself starting to slip off to sleep. Besides, the prospect of hating himself for it later seemed so very far away. He'd think about that in the morning . . .

 

“Jezebel,” he muttered, closing his eyes and pulling her a little closer.

 

He thought he heard her soft laughter as he drifted away in sleep, but he couldn't be sure . . .

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

Jezebel, indeed!

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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~