InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Disquiet ( Chapter 51 )

~~Chapter 51~~

~Disquiet~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle sat on the floor, scowling at the weakened dog that whimpered softly as she carefully cleaned around the drainage tube. She hated to do it, but she also knew that it had to be taken care of, and while she was eternally grateful to Dr. Brandon, she couldn't help the upset that was never very far away whenever she had to tend Charlie's wounds. “When did I give him the last dose of meds?” she asked over her shoulder without turning to look at Griffin.

 

Uttering an indelicate snort, Griffin didn't even pause as he wrote in the notebook. “About an hour ago,” he stated evenly. “He won't need more for awhile.”

 

His answer didn't pacify her at all. “But Dr. Brandon said—”

 

“You're going to overdose him if you keep it up,” Griffin interrupted with a frustrated sigh. “You're doing all you can do. Let him in peace, and he'll heal up faster.”

 

That earned him a petulant little scowl as she uttered a soft `hrumph' and turned back to stroke Charlie's knobby head again. The dog whined softly though he did manage to wag his tail—a far sight better than what he'd been able to do since they'd brought him home, in Griffin's estimation.

 

“He will be all right, won't he?” she asked for what had to be the millionth time.

 

Griffin sighed, dropping his pen onto the tablet and giving up on his efforts to finish the translation since Isabelle simply wouldn't leave him alone. He figured that it was fine, too. She'd barely gotten any sleep last night, hopping up every time she heard the slightest sound to check on the dog. In the end, Griffin had carried Charlie into the bedroom in an effort to alleviate her fears and to allow her to get some rest, and he hadn't even complained when she'd taken his pillow to make a bed for the animal to lie on. She's told him that Charlie would be comforted by Griffin's scent, and while he highly doubted that, he hadn't really argued with her, either. She hadn't agreed to lie down until he had assured her for what had to be the fiftieth time that he'd sit up with the animal to make sure that everything was all right, and only then did she manage to get a few fitful hours of much needed rest.

 

To be honest, he still wasn't sure exactly what to make of the idea that she'd all but taken over his bedroom. He supposed that the next step in the evolution would be for him to come home only to find pastel floral printed sheets on his bed . . .

 

`Oh, get a grip, Griffin. It's not that bad. After all, she's warm and nice, and . . . and she feels good, too.'

 

Snorting at his own irritating thoughts, Griffin couldn't help the heat that infused his cheeks at the implied intimacy, and maybe it was his own discomfort that prompted him to shake his head stubbornly. `Yeah, sure,' he allowed almost grudgingly. `Damn fool woman . . .'

 

So he had told himself that he could let her stay in his room until the dog was recovered. After that, he'd explain to her that she ought to be in the guest room. After all, there were just too many things that she really didn't understand, and Griffin . . . well, he wasn't exactly sure that he wanted to explain it all to her, in the first place . . .

 

A slight bit of pressure rubbed against his leg, and he leaned back far enough, sighing heavily in abject resignation, and it didn't help to remind himself that it was entirely his own fault, either. When he'd called to ask that someone bring some of Isabelle's things by, he'd also remembered to ask that they find and bring the idiotic cat, too, and she was pleased beyond belief to be home, or so it would seem. Mewing up at him with her eyes wide and glowing, she only blinked lazily when he narrowed his gaze on her, and Griffin sighed and shook his head. It figured. Between animals and Isabelle, his life was slowly but surely going to the dogs, as it were . . .

 

“Do you think he looks comfortable enough?” she asked anxiously.

 

Griffin frowned at the dog and grunted. “Looks just fine,” he mumbled.

 

“Maybe I should get my pillow for him . . .”

 

“Forget it, Isabelle. All your pillows are actually my pillows, and he doesn't need them. Besides, you already gave him one of mine last night.”

 

She shot him a reproachful glance but said nothing more, turning her attention back on her pet for the moment. “Do you think he's hungry?” she asked at length.

 

Griffin sighed. “Why don't you ask him? You can understand him, can't you?”

 

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Of course I can normally, but he's not feeling very well, and his voice is a bit more muffled than usual.”

 

“Leave him alone or I'll take him back to the vet's office so he can recover in peace and quiet,” Griffin warned.

 

Isabelle's face contorted in a marked pout. “He needs to be here where I can take care of him,” she insisted.

 

“He needs to have some room to breathe,” Griffin insisted. “Anyway, I need you to look over some of these translations.”

 

She heaved a sigh designed to let him know exactly what she thought of his advice but pushed herself to her feet before stomping across the floor to snatch the notebook out of his outstretched hands. She could appreciate his advice, she supposed, even though she wasn't nearly as inclined to agree. Froofie had been through a horrible ordeal, and he needed to know that she was there for him.

 

With a sigh, she forced herself to sit down with the translations, reading over the notes written in Griffin's strong script. Her mind wasn't in it, though, and the words could have been in their untranslated format for all the good it did her to read through them.

 

“Isabelle,” he said, his tone tentative, almost reluctant. She didn't look up from the notes, however, as she wondered if she ought to offer her dog something to eat anyway.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“When you first brought your computer over here with the research scans on it, did you ever delete that file?” he asked.

 

Leaning to the side to snare her glasses off the coffee table, she frowned at Griffin's notes regarding the translation of one line in the text. “The file? No, but it's password protected. Why?”

 

Griffin didn't answer right away, as though he were considering what she'd told him. “How strong of a password did you use?”

 

Blinking as she dragged her attention off the research notes and her dog, she let the book fall into her lap as she pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand. “I used the password I always use,” she told him rather uncertainly. “No one's ever been able to crack it, if that's what you mean. I used to have one of those electronic diaries, and my sister used to try to sneak into it all the time, so if she couldn't figure out what password I'd used, then I doubt anyone else would be able to, either. Besides,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “I used the new Intelliface program—you know: the one that deletes the file automatically after five failed attempts at giving the password.”

 

“Yes, but that doesn't really delete the file, does it?”

 

“Of course it does. Intelliface works with the drive sweeper program, so once a file's been deleted, it's completely wiped from the system.”

 

Griffin frowned. She seemed positive enough, and certainly he'd heard about the new features on the Intelliface program, but it seemed too simple, didn't it?

 

Scooping up the cat and rubbing her behind the ears, he slowly shook his head. The little beast had been hiding under Isabelle's bed, or so Bas Zelig had claimed. He'd also commented that the cat wouldn't come out until he'd taken his wife back to the office since the cat-youkai he'd married couldn't seem to stop hissing at the animal.

 

`What a strange family,' he thought with an inward snort. `Almost makes Isabelle seem normal . . . almost . . .'

 

Still, he couldn't help but worry about the missing laptop computer. Though he believed Isabelle when she said that her password was strong enough, he knew damn well that there were ways around that password if they had a mind to get there. After all, it wasn't that difficult to find software that could break through those sorts of protections. He could only hope that, in worst-case scenario, the last and greatest defense of all was the work, itself, that had taken him months to decipher . . . There were only a handful of people that he knew of worldwide that had as much knowledge on the ancient Indian dialects, and as far as he knew, none of them were quite as well-versed in them as he was, which made sense. He lived with those same people for more years than he could put a number on. It would take all of those men combined to be able to translate the research, and it would likely take them years to do so since they wouldn't be able to analyze the text on a whole in order to find the best translation . . .

 

The real problem, as far as Griffin could tell, was the idea that whoever had stolen the laptop and attacked the dog would figure out that Isabelle had help on the project. That would bring them sniffing around his door, and while he didn't rightfully care if they did or didn't come, he would walk through a river of fire before he'd ever willingly hand over the woman . . .

 

The dog let out a deep sigh, drawing Isabelle's attention immediately. The woman stood up, dropping the notes on the coffee table as she hurried over to check on her pet. “How long has it been since his last dose?” she asked rather distractedly.

 

Griffin sighed and shook his head. “About fifteen minutes since the last time you asked,” he grumbled. “Let him rest, will you?”

 

She shot him a wounded sort of glance. “He says he hurts,” she explained in a small voice.

 

Griffin relented, pushing the cat off his lap as he slowly stood up to shuffle over to Isabelle. “Of course he hurts,” he told her, hunkering down beside her and staring thoughtfully at the dog in question. “He's getting better. It'll just take a little longer.”

 

“I know,” she muttered, her tone giving away her absolute disgust at what she perceived to be her inability to do a thing to help Charlie's recovery. “Why would someone do this?” she asked in a whisper, her voice thick with her confusion. “He's just a dog—he'd never hurt anyone . . .”

 

“I don't know,” he admitted. “Sometimes things happen that just don't make sense, and no matter how long you try to do that, you never will. I told you that already, didn't I?”

 

She didn't answer right away as she idly stroked the dog's knobby head, and when he smelled the salt of her tears, he grimaced. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice curiously strong despite the misery that seemed to radiate from her.

 

He couldn't control the blush that heated his cheeks—something about her tone of voice, he supposed . . . He grunted and pushed himself to his feet once more, heading off toward the kitchen to make them some tea. “Don't thank me, Isabelle,' he called over his shoulder. “Just buy me a new pillow. I don't think I want that one back.”

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Gunnar flopped back and heaved a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face in a gesture of complete exasperation before shifting his scowl to the digital photos spread over his desktop. They'd spent hours meticulously photographing and cataloging everything as they'd searched through the carnage left behind in Isabelle's home, and between the stench of the dog's blood that seemed to be everywhere and the reek of the spilled cleaning solutions amongst other things left behind in the bathroom and kitchen, he was still nursing a headache from it all. One thing was clear to him, though: whoever had perpetrated the crime had known damn well about their senses. He had to. As far as Gunnar could tell, he'd gone well out of his way to mask his scent, and damned if he hadn't succeeded in spades. Besides, it didn't take a brilliant mind to realize that the target of the break-in had to be the research. The only thing that was missing, as far as he knew, was Isabelle's laptop, and the woman had things in that place that a regular thief would have grabbed well before a computer, in his estimation. Isabelle didn't try to hide her jewelry box. It was sitting on her dresser, and while the contents looked like they'd been upset, nothing appeared to be missing from it, either.

 

In the filing cabinet beside her desk she kept all of her important documents: banking information, car title, credit card hardcopies, and the like. No, if someone had wanted to rob her, it would have been quite simple to do, and yet the only thing missing was the computer.

 

The intruder was obviously after the research, and if he knew about the research, then it stood to reason that he was youkai, as well—or working for a youkai in any case, and as much as Gunnar hated to agree with Griffin Marin on anything, at least the bear-youkai had realized it right off, too, which alleviated a degree of his foremost concern. Still, even if Marin knew it, did he really possess the wherewithal to protect Isabelle should it come to that? He'd told Cain that he'd protect her, and Cain was willing to accept that, but Gunnar . . .

 

He sighed, idly picking up a picture and turning it over in his fingertips. He'd heard Ben's explanations of Marin's involvement on the night that Cain's mother was murdered, and he accepted that Marin wasn't quite the bad guy that he'd originally suspected—at least on that count—but he also knew damn well that the youkai's body was not in the best of condition. He'd seen concrete proof of that, himself, the one time he'd come face to face with Marin. He'd seen enough of the scarring that traversed Griffin's face to know that the likelihood that it only appeared there was slim to none, and he had to wonder how much mobility the youkai really possessed, and even if his mind were willing, the real question was, was his body able to back up the promise?

 

And something else Ben had said still troubled him. Letting the picture fall from his fingers, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette—John Player black—and took his time lighting it with the matte black Zippo that Sydnie had gifted him with last Christmas.

 

Ben had alluded to Griffin's scars—in fact, it was something that he remembered from the night Cain's mother died: the bear-youkai with the scars—that's what he'd said, and while Gunnar might believe that some of his scarring had come from Sebastian Cavendish's mindless assault, not all of them had.

 

Which meant that there was more—much more—to Griffin's story than what met the eye, and if that was the case, Gunnar still had to wonder exactly what the man really was hiding. Myrna had rolled her eyes and asserted her belief that Gunnar simply hated to be wrong, and while he had to allow that there was a part of him that didn't like that, he also couldn't help but feel that there was more to it, and that the `more to it' might be worse than the circumstances of that fateful night. Whatever the reason, it wasn't something that Gunnar was going to ignore. His gut instinct told him that he needed to dig just a little deeper, and while he could believe that Marin didn't really pose a threat now, he wouldn't be satisfied until he knew for certain that Marin was good enough for Isabelle, damn it.

 

One thing was certain. In all the years of his life, he'd learned not to ignore that feeling. More often than not, it was right on the money, and Gunnar knew—just knew—that this time was no different. Marin's secrets needed to be uncovered, especially when Isabelle's life might well depend upon it . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle heaved a sigh and popped an eye open to see whether or not Griffin was sleeping. She thought he might be. His breathing was even, steady, but she'd thought that a half an hour ago—the last time she'd tried to sneak out of bed to check on Froofie. He'd uttered a terse grunt and sat up quicker than she had thought was fair only to catch her hand and pull her back not roughly, exactly, but in such a way that left little room for debate on the subject, either. “Leave him be,” he'd said despite Isabelle's whining protests. “If you don't, I'll take him back to Dr. Brandon's office—see if I don't.”

 

“If you do it, I'll lock you up in the other bedroom,” Griffin remarked, his voice startling in the quiet. The blasted man hadn't even opened his eyes.

 

“I was just going to get a glass of water,” she insisted, her tone haughty despite the burn in her cheeks as she smashed her face into her pillow.

 

Griffin's snort was loud and pronounced. “Might put you back in there, anyway,” he grumbled, rolling onto his side and slipping an arm around her waist. “God only knows I'm not getting any sleep with you in here.”

 

Swallowing hard as the flush in her cheeks darkened but for entirely different reasons, she felt her body meld against his chest despite the trace irritation that lingered. “You could distract me,” she suggested, partially to get even with him for his perceived callousness, half because she wished he would.

 

It took him a moment to get the gist of her ribbing, and when he did, he choked just a little. “Jezebel,” he accused, tightening his arm around her in a mock effort to squeeze the air out of her, she supposed.

 

“Well, you are holding me,” she pointed out.

 

He snorted again. “No, I'm making sure you don't try to bolt the second I go to sleep,” he corrected. “Now shut up, will you? You can check on Charlie in the morning.”

 

“You're being unnecessarily mean, you know,” she pointed out.

 

She might as well have saved her breath. “Damn straight, I am,” he agreed.

 

Heaving another sigh meant to let him know that she thought he was being entirely unreasonable, she couldn't help but to snuggle just a little closer to him. Whether he realized it or not, he was comforting her by his very proximity—something she desperately needed. He was acting just like her mate, come to think of it, and that thought was enough to make her smile. Wan and thin, but a smile all the same, she grudgingly gave up on the idea of checking on the dog lying in the corner of the room.

 

Something was bothering him, wasn't it? She'd realized that earlier, but hadn't been clear-headed enough to try to figure out why. She was a terrible person, wasn't she? Always lost in her own thoughts and in concerns that she stubbornly kept to herself, she constantly insisted that it was because she didn't want to burden others, but she knew the truth. She hated the idea that anyone might think that she couldn't take care of herself, didn't she? Still when she'd gotten home only to find her front door standing wide open, smelling the agonizing scent of her precious baby's blood, her mind had done the instinctive thing as she'd given in to the overwhelming panic. She hadn't actually realized that she'd even called Griffin until he was standing in her living room. He was the one person she was willing to lean on, wasn't he? The one person who could lend her a semblance of strength when hers faltered that she wouldn't feel insecure about later . . .

 

There was something different about him since that night, too. At first she'd tried to tell herself that she was imagining things; that it was all in her head. But that wasn't the case, was it? Griffin was still the same gruff man she'd come to adore, and yet there was something just below that, too; a certain tenderness in his treatment of her, as though he wanted to protect her . . . and maybe, just maybe, that protection had started centuries ago, long before she was ever born, but . . .

 

“Griffin?” she said, careful to keep her voice down lest he was sleeping already.

 

“I think I have some rope around here somewhere,” he commented dryly.

 

She smiled in the darkness. “I never got to thank you, did I? For what you did for my grandpa.”

 

“I didn't do anything,” he remarked. She figured he'd downplay it all.

 

“You did,” she insisted. “You saved him. Ben said—”

 

“I'm not a hero, Isabelle,” he interrupted, his tone all the more forceful for its quietness. “Don't make the mistake of thinking that I was.”

 

“If not you then who?” she challenged. “If you hadn't been there . . .”

 

Flopping over onto his back, he draped his forearm over his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Don't you understand?” he asked suddenly, his voice rising sharply. “It had nothing to do with saving anyone. I was . . . was scared. That's why I did it. Fear.”

 

Leaning on her elbow, she regarded him in the stingy moonlight filtering through the crack between the heavy drapes and the window. In the thin stream of light, she could barely discern his profile, but she didn't need to see to feel the thickness of his youki constricting around him, closing her out, pushing her away. “What were you afraid of?” she asked in a whisper.

 

He sat up suddenly, swinging his legs off the bed and burying his face in his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees. Hunched forward, he seemed infinitely tired, unaccountably sad. “Nothing . . . everything . . .”

 

She didn't know what to say to that. She'd felt that way, hadn't she? The night she'd come home only to find Froofie . . . she knew that feeling, and she despised it. Pushing herself up, she leaned against his back, slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on the soft flannel shirt he wore. “You were afraid of being caught up in something that you couldn't control,” she concluded softly, her voice muffled slightly by his shirt.

 

He shook his head and sighed again—more of a movement than a sound. “No, that . . . that wasn't it,” he admitted. “I just . . . I didn't want to watch another child die . . . I couldn't . . .” Shaking his head, he let his hands fall to dangle between his parted knees. “He was just a terrified little cub, but I think . . . I think I was more afraid than he was—afraid of seeing more blood because it never . . . ever washes away . . .”

 

“You were thinking about your sister,” she said gently.

 

He seemed startled by her statement, his body stiffening against the shock, and for a moment, she thought she'd overstepped herself, that he was going to pull away from her. He didn't, but he didn't relax, either. “No. Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking.”

 

“It's okay, you know,” she ventured, tightening her arms around him. “It's all right to let yourself feel good about what you did that night. Even if it wasn't your intention, you still saved my grandfather, and you didn't have to. You're a good man—a decent man—and if anyone has the right to hold their head high and be proud of who they are, it's you.”

 

“No, I don't,” he muttered, carefully pushing her away as he got to his feet and slowly, stiffly shuffled toward the doorway. “Don't go looking to canonize me, Isabelle. The damned are the ones left to go on living.”

 

She watched him go with a frown on her face, struggling to understand the words that he hadn't said. Somewhere in his mind, he still believed that he didn't deserve her—no, that wasn't quite right. He believed, didn't he, that he didn't deserve any measure of real happiness. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she let her chin fall onto her raised knees. Despite what he might believe, she knew—knew—that he wanted that happiness, that peace. She could sense it in her heart. It was more of a feeling than something she could put her finger on; more of an instinct, she supposed . . .

 

`So you need to make him realize that he wants to be happy, right?' her youkai piped up.

 

Isabelle blinked and lifted her chin, her expression turning thoughtful. `But how do I do that?'

 

`Oh, it's not that tough, is it? In fact, you're well on your way to showing him that, don't you think?'

 

The stuttering warmth of determination ebbed through her, and she bit her lip. Her youkai was right, damn it. Griffin might be stubborn and might not want to admit what it was that he wanted, but she was, too, and this fight . . .

 

It wasn't one that she was willing to lose.

 

 

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

All right, Dr. G … It's on …

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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~