InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Upheaval ( Chapter 53 )

~~Chapter 53~~

~Upheaval~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Sending a surreptitious glance up and down the length of the moderately busy sidewalk that ran the length of the street, Gavin couldn't see anything that he would consider suspect as he tapped his foot and waited impatiently for Dr. Avis to open the door yet knowing deep down that he wasn't going to. Something about the aura surrounding the doctor's residence felt empty, and while he couldn't exactly place his finger on the why of it, it didn't really matter when his instincts were screaming that something was definitely wrong.

 

Moving his gaze back to the closed door, he scowled at the knob. There wasn't a keyhole—Gavin wasn't surprised. The old-fashioned metal key-locks became outdated long ago, and while they could still be found in some places, most folks had gone to the electronic touchpad locks or the more expensive bio-locks or thumb-pad locks. Dr. Avis' small townhouse had a keycard lock—almost outdated though they were still being produced. The video monitor over the card swipe lock, however, was cracked and very likely unusable.

 

He should have thought to borrow his father's lock kit, he thought sourly with a shake of his head. True, he hadn't told Moe Jamison exactly what he was up to, but his father wasn't stupid, either. Moe had walked into Gavin's bedroom as the latter was packing for the trip, and it hadn't taken him more than a cursory glance to ascertain that Gavin definitely wasn't packing for a stockbroker's conference, in any case. Moe hadn't called Gavin on the lie, though he had admonished him to be careful.

 

Still, that lock pick kit that consisted of about a dozen devices meant to grant access even when access hadn't been authorized would've come in handy, damn it. Then again, he thought with a sigh, there was a good chance that passersby might consider it to be even stranger to see him standing on Dr. Avis' porch with his back all hunched over as he tried to break the lock . . .

 

`Maybe there's another way in,' his youkai voice prodded.

 

Gavin nodded. Stepping back, he tilted his head, taking in the edifice of the rather nondescript building. The windows were closed, it seemed, without as much as a crack in the panes. `Damn it . . .' he thought, his expression darkening. He'd have to wait until the cover of night, wouldn't he?

 

`Check around back first,' his youkai suggested.

 

`Good idea.'

 

Sparing a moment to cast another cursory glance up and down the street, Gavin loped down the steps of the stoop, and, satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he darted around the side of the building. It only took him a minute to figure out that the back door was locked, too, which just figured. Was Avis the kind of man who checked the locks every night, or was he worried about something else . . .?

 

He shook his head. It didn't make sense, and that was the real reason he was here, after all. Cain had said that Avis didn't seem the kind to present a real threat—that was why he'd hired people to do the job for him, wasn't it? Removed as he had been from the ability to hire more thugs, Avis, himself, was powerless, and while Cain's gut instinct might have been to order Avis killed for his transgression, Jillian had begged for him to let him live, and why?

 

`Because,' Gavin thought with a grimace. `Because she had questions that only Dr. Avis could answer—questions about her biological parents; questions about where she'd come from . . .'

 

Was that the real reason he was there? Jillian was concerned, and while that was to be expected, no one else knew, did they? They didn't see her with that faraway look on her face, that sadness in her beautiful eyes. They didn't see her try to hide the tears that she wiped away when she thought that no one was looking . . . They didn't know how desperately she wanted to understand exactly what had happened, and they didn't know the deep-seeded feeling that she just wasn't good enough despite the love and absolute devotion she was given unconditionally by her adoptive parents. Gavin understood, or at least he tried to. Truthfully, he probably never would really comprehend it on the level that Jillian did. He supposed that it was a feeling that only someone who had been given up for one reason or another could ready empathize with . . .

 

And maybe that was the thing that had compelled him to come. He'd seen it in her eyes one time too many, and if there was any way he could prevent her from having that look on her face again, he'd do it . . .

 

Heaving a sigh as he surveyed the structure from the shadows and relative privacy of the small yard, he frowned. The grass hadn't been cut in a while, and while the season was heading into autumn here, he had to wonder why it was that no one had seemed to notice something like that. Most cities had ordinances regarding such things—at least, they did in cities where having any sort of yard was possible. It was something else he could add to the list of strange things, he supposed.

 

Standing in the shade of a leafy tree, he narrowed his gaze as he stared at a window a few feet to the right of the back door. Upon first glance, he'd thought it was closed, but the bottom of the window seemed wider than the others, and as Gavin slowly walked forward, he could see the slight crack—no more than half an inch—between the window and the sill.

 

Grunting as he wedged his fingertips into the crack, he braced his shoulder against the wall as he tried to force the pane up. It wouldn't budge, and he recalled in an absent sort of way the talk he'd overheard when he'd stopped to get a cup of coffee earlier when he'd been assuring himself that he was doing exactly what any other man would do if he was worried about his mate. A couple of waitresses had been talking about the excess amount of rain they'd been getting of late. In light of that, he had to wonder if the window wasn't swollen . . .

 

Stepping away when the window frame groaned in protest of the force he was applying, Gavin tamped down the surge of anger that rose in him. He wasn't sure whether or not the place had security systems installed, but he didn't want to take the chance that it might. He simply wanted to make sure that Avis was all right, didn't he? He didn't want or need to get arrested for his efforts . . .

 

`Hell . . .' he thought with an uncharacteristic growl.

 

`No, wait,' his youkai said. `You could get in there, you know . . .'

 

`I . . . could . . .?' he countered uncertainly. Even if he managed to get the window open, he wasn't entirely sure that he could get through it. It was rather narrow, and from where he stood, he could see that the window, itself, was situated over the kitchen sink. Frowning at the dinginess that seemed to coat the glass on the inside, he let out a deep breath full of abject disgust and swung away from the man-made barrier. He was so close and yet just a little too far, and the irritation that accompanied that thought was enough to make him grit his teeth together—hard.

 

`No, Gavin, listen . . . if you took your energy form, you could do it. You could fly right in there without messing with the window . . .'

 

That thought stopped him short, and he carted around to stare at the window once more. In his lifetime, he'd only done that a couple of times since it wasn't something that was considered commonplace. After all, youkai were to hide what they were, and if one were to do that in the presence of humans, then it would be considered dangerous to the ruse they collectively held together. Glancing around once more, he sighed, realizing too late that his very presence in Avis' back yard was probably more suspect and more noticeable than a moment where he might disappear. Any casual observer would likely just think it was a trick of the eye and not puzzle over it for more than a moment at best . . . Still, he stepped over, retreating into the darkest shadows in the corner between the building and the tree, closing his eyes and willing his body to dissolve. He could feel the foreign tingle in his limbs, and the sudden rush of air that lifted his bangs rushed him forward. It was a strange thing, really. Guided more by intent than by any real conscious thought, he felt the floor solidify under his feet as his body took form once more.

 

He was in the kitchen of Avis' home, and he could tell that the man wasn't there. In fact, there was a strange sort of stillness that only seemed to settle over a place if it had been vacant for some time. More of a feeling than anything else, he'd noticed the same sort of stillness in other places before. But if Avis wasn't here and hadn't been here for a while, then the question loomed larger in Gavin's mind: just where the hell did he go . . . and why?

 

Letting out a deep breath as he slowly surveyed the kitchen, he shook his head. He'd been gone a while, Gavin would say. Everything in the place seemed to be covered with a fine layer of brackish dust. Staring at it with a thoughtful frown, Gavin sneezed and shook his head. There was something altogether odd about it that he couldn't put his finger on, and he wrinkled his nose at the strange odor in the air, too—one that he couldn't quite place. He'd smelled something like it before, but for the life of him, he just couldn't remember where . . .

 

Still, if Avis was gone, maybe he'd left something to indicate the where or the why. Stepping into the small living room where Jillian had sat and talked with the doctor, Gavin brushed aside the unsettling feeling of déjà vu. Spotting the small wooden desk by the far wall, he strode over to it, hoping against hope that he'd find something—a note that he could use or a receipt . . . a phone number . . . something that would help him locate the missing doctor . . .

 

A tablet of paper bearing the moniker of a local bank on the pages sat in the middle of the desk. A pen lay beside the tablet, but the page was blank. Stifling a frustrated growl, he reached for the pad anyway, making a face as he blew the sabulous dust off the top and narrowed his eyes to examine it. There were faint indents on it, like someone had written something on the page that used to be on top. If he could find a pencil to rub over it, he might be able to figure out what was written there, after all . . .

 

Wincing as the dust he'd blown off the paper tingled in his nostrils, he turned his head to the side, hitching his shoulder to block the rising sneeze. When he opened his eyes, though, he frowned. The late afternoon sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains covering the long windows on either side of the front door stretched over the floor in hazy stripes, but that wasn't what held his attention, no . . .

 

There was a larger pile of the strange dust—more like . . . ashes—on the floor next to the wall, and an eerie outline—vague but there, nonetheless—of a person etched in the same dust on the dingy white paint, and in the floor in the pile of dust was something that looked to be a wristwatch, fastened like it was still being worn, and he could feel his brain slow as a strange sort of realization started to form.

 

With a muffled curse, he dropped the tablet of paper onto the desk and moved toward the mess, his gaze fixed on the black band. Hand shaking as he hunkered down, as he slowly reached for the device, he grimaced as he grasped the shockingly cool plastic and lifted it, staring at it with something akin to befuddlement as he watched the tiny red light blink lazily.

 

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open with his thumb, dialing the third number on his speed dial. Everything around him seemed to slow, grinding to a crawl where everything and nothing could be discerned. How long ago had this happened? Avis hadn't answered his phone, hadn't answered his door for how long . . .? What the hell had happened, and why would someone have . . .?

 

“Hello?” Cain Zelig's voice came over the line. He sounded a little groggy, and Gavin grimaced.

 

“Cain? It's Gavin,” he said, foregoing the apologies he should have been making for calling his father-in-law in the middle of the night.

 

“Is something wrong? Is Jillian okay?” he asked, his voice sharpened by worry.

 

Gavin sighed. “Uh, no, she's fine. I just . . .” Grimacing, he shook his head, unable to think of a good way to say why he'd called and figuring that he might as well just out with it. “Avis is dead.”

 

“What?” Cain demanded sharply. “What do you . . . how do you know?”

 

“I wanted answers,” he stated simply. “I'm in his house, and there's this dust, like ash, and his tracer is still here . . .”

 

Cain was silent for a moment, as though he needed the time to digest what Gavin had told him. “Gavin, leave everything where you found it and get the hell out of there,” he commanded.

 

“Cain—”

 

“Just do it,” Cain demanded again. “I want you on the next plane out of there.”

 

Gritting his teeth together, he let the transmitter fall from his fingers into the dust, raising a small cloud of ash that he waved away as he stood up once more. “All right,” he agreed tightly since he didn't want to comply. He wanted answers, damn it, and just why did he have the feeling that he wouldn't be getting any of those, either, once he left the building?

 

Smashing the cell phone against his chest to close the device, he dropped it into his pocket and heaved a disgusted sigh, trying to brush aside the feeling that he'd just been chastised like a pup. Looking around slowly, committing everything to memory, the realization that he'd unearthed more questions than he'd answered grated on him as he moved through the silent rooms heading for the kitchen. His footprints in the dust that had settled over everything seemed to mock him, and he uttered a terse grunt as he turned away from the living room and willed his body to dissolve once more.

 

`Just what had happened in there?' he asked himself as he blinked and glanced around the small yard behind Avis' home. `Who would want him . . . dead . . .?'

 

Only the silence punctuated by the rumble of cars passing on the street, the nondescript sounds of a city that seemed oddly devoid of a more humanly presence answered him.

 

With a sigh, he jammed his hands into his pockets as he slipped around the house and onto the sidewalk once more, casting furtive glances in every direction as though he were searching for some unknown presence. He'd thought that he'd get some answers if he came here, hadn't he? So why did he feel as though he'd failed completely . . .?

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“Well, if it isn't my prodigal daughter,” Kichiro Izayoi greeted warmly. “So you didn't forget my cell phone number, after all . . .”

 

Isabelle smiled a bit guiltily as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Sorry, Papa. Guess I've been a little busy.”

 

“Too busy for your father,” he teased. “I gotcha . . .”

 

“Of course not!” she challenged then sighed. “I'm never too busy for you . . .”

 

His laughter was as warm and welcoming as she remembered, and she smiled despite the nagging knowledge that she really had been avoiding him. `Not avoiding,' she thought as she quickly shook her head. `Not really, anyway . . . he just notices way too much, and then he'd have been on the first plane over to try to fix everything.'

 

“Is there a reason you called or did you just miss your old man that much?” he prompted.

 

Sinking down on the sofa, she bit her lip and frowned at the notebook she'd left on the coffee table. “I always miss you,” she chided.

 

“About as much as I miss mine,” he retorted mildly.

 

“Grandpa lives in the same forest you do,” she pointed out.

 

Kichiro sighed. “Yes, he does,” he allowed. “That's exactly my point. So what is it that you need?”

 

Smiling despite herself, she laughed softly at her father's no-nonsense line of questioning. “Well, it's about the research,” she replied, seeing no way around the inevitable. “I've read over everything, and it all makes sound, logical sense. The thing is—practically speaking—assembling a study group may prove to be a little difficult.”

 

“Yeah, well, that is pretty sensitive stuff,” he allowed, letting out a deep breath, and she didn't miss the sound of the chair creaking as he sat back, rubbing his eyes and considering her dilemma. “You may want to be a bit more cautious, too. I mean, it's all well and good to say that it should work, but if it doesn't . . .”

 

“I know,” she said. “Separating out the component in youkai blood sounds logical on paper, but finding youkai willing to donate, not to mention the problems with the higher youkai and their special abilities . . .”

 

“Right,” Kichiro agreed. “Still, your problems should be dealt with in steps. I think it's logical to conclude that dog-youkai should be left out of the donor pool, period.”

 

“Mm,” she murmured, tapping the cap of an ink pen against the table in a steady cadence then heaved a sigh. She'd been trying to think about the research all day—at least, whenever she wasn't fussing over Froofie—but the truth of it was that the research was the last thing on her mind . . .

 

“One thing at a time, Baby-Belle,” Kichiro reminded her in his completely pragmatic way. “See what you can do about creating the serum before you worry about assembling a case study group.”

 

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she nodded. “Right . . . I mean, they researched the serum pretty thoroughly and were convinced that it wouldn't impact youkai mating practices since the comparative amount of youkai DNA that remained was diluted and pretty nominal, but I'd feel better if I checked all that, myself, too.”

 

“That's my girl,” he approved. “I have every faith that you can handle it.”

 

She smiled despite her wayward thoughts. “Of course I can,” she assured him. Taking a deep breath, she tossed the ink pen onto the scrawl of notes and flopped back. “So tell me how your research is going?”

 

“Well,” he drawled, his amusement evident in his tone of voice, “it's doing just fine. In fact, I think I've isolated the gene that is responsible for a youkai's scent. I've been toying with a formula that could alter or repress that gene for a short time.”

 

“Oh? That's impressive,” she remarked.

 

“Not so impressive,” he admitted then chuckled. “I was looking for something entirely different.”

 

She wasn't daunted, knowing her father's habit of downplaying his own accomplishments. “Yeah, but that might be a plus for the hunters, don't you think?”

 

“For the hunters, maybe,” he drawled. “It could be problematic if it fell into the wrong hands.”

 

“Isn't that how it always is? It doesn't matter what you're talking about, any time anything falls into the wrong hands, it could be detrimental, don't you think?”

 

Kichiro sighed, and she heard his chair squeak as he stood up. A moment later, she discerned the definite scrape of the sliding glass doors that led to the yard behind the house. She smiled. Whenever Kichiro was considering things, he tended to wander around. “Yeah, well, Sesshoumaru's been saying that maybe Ryomaru ought to retire. Thinks that he's too familiar or something, and you know your uncle.”

 

“He doesn't like that idea,” she concluded.

 

“Not at all.”

 

“So maybe this'll help. I mean, if Uncle can mask or change his scent while he's out on a hunt, then it would give him another advantage, wouldn't it? Not that he'd need it. There isn't a better hunter in the world.”

 

Kichiro let out a deep breath, and Isabelle had to wonder just how much uproar the idea was causing back home. She had a feeling that it was more than it probably ought to have been. Even if Sesshoumaru had simply suggested that Ryomaru retire, she figured that her hot-tempered grandfather was likely to call him out at dawn for implying that Ryomaru wasn't up to snuff for any reason, and the real downside was that any time something like this came up, it tended to split the family down the middle. The last time that anything had really caused that big an argument was when Kagome and InuYasha had been at odds over how to handle Mikio's balance problems. She didn't really remember that too well, but she could recall the tension in the air wherever she went. Even her parents, as much as they loved each other, had been on differing sides of the discussion. Kichiro had believed that if something could be done to help Mikio back then, then it should be looked into, but Bellaniece had sided with InuYasha, saying that the cure shouldn't be more traumatic than the ailment, to begin with.

 

As if Kichiro read her thoughts, he sighed. “It's not as bad as you're thinking,” he assured her ruefully. “At least, it isn't yet. I talked to Sesshoumaru about what I'd found out, and Ryomaru agreed to test it out for me, so Sesshoumaru's leaving it all up to Toga's discretion, and, well, you know Toga. He can see his father's point, but he makes it a point not to agree with him very often . . . Anyway, Nezumi's of two minds about it, too. On the one hand, she'd love for Ryo to quit hunting, but on the other, she only wants him to do it when it's his choice and not something forced on him.”

 

He sounded positive enough, she had to allow. It was enough to reassure her, in any case. With a wan laugh, she sat up enough to reach for a mug of tea—odd, how much she liked it these days—off the table beside the sofa and cradled it against her chest as she carefully settled back once more. “Glad to hear it.”

 

“All right,” he said suddenly, the scrape of the door closing behind him echoing in the background, “I give up. I figured you'd get around to telling me why you sound so preoccupied, but I suppose that was wishful thinking, so I'm asking.”

 

Letting out a deep breath, she frowned. It wasn't the idea of talking to her father about things that she'd learned that troubled her. Kichiro was a very open-minded man, after all. It was finding a place to start that did. It was a lot to take in, wasn't it? And then this morning . . .

 

“I've just . . . had a lot on my mind,” she hedged.

 

“Is it about your bear?”

 

She couldn't help but smile at the way he'd referred to Griffin as `hers'. `He really is, isn't he?' she mused to herself. Her happiness was short lived, though, as images of Griffin's face—of the absolute grief that was too fresh, too raw to subside despite the centuries that had passed—solidified in her mind. There was too much pain in him; pain that she'd been powerless against, and that was what bothered her most. “Sort of,” she admitted slowly.

 

“Want to tell me about it?” Kichiro prodded gently.

 

“I don't know what to do,” she confessed quietly then grimaced. “I mean, I do; I just . . . I-I don't know . . .”

 

“Did something happen?”

 

“Yes . . . no . . . I mean, nothing happened now, no. It was a long time ago.”

 

“You're not making much sense,” Kichiro ventured carefully, as though he was afraid of her reaction.

 

She sighed again, rubbing her forehead in an infinitely tired sort of way. “I'm not, am I?”

 

“Why don't you start at the beginning?”

 

Wincing, she drew a deep breath, wondering exactly where the beginning truly was; what would her father think in the end? It was true, she knew, that the man she knew now wouldn't ever hurt anyone, but she couldn't help but wonder whether her feelings for Griffin might be blinding her to the truth of it. Killing humans was taboo, wasn't it? It was something that youkai were hunted for; she knew that. Up until she'd heard his story, she'd always believed that there were never grounds to justify that sort of violence. It was what she was brought up to believe, wasn't it? Still . . .

 

Kichiro was silent, likely giving her time to organize her thoughts, and while she knew that her father wasn't the kind of man who would ever pass judgment on Griffin, she couldn't help but feel like she was betraying Griffin . . . She wasn't, not really. She just needed to get some perspective on things, didn't she?

 

“His family was killed,” she said at last, her voice soft, as though she was afraid to speak any louder, and maybe she was. “Actually, they were . . . tortured . . . and killed . . .”

 

“Kami,” Kichiro breathed. She could hear the wince in his voice.

 

She sighed. “Yeah, and . . . and he saw it. All of it. They had him restrained with Ofuda, and he . . . well, he . . .” she trailed off, wishing that she could see her father's face; wishing that she could see what it was that he was thinking. “He . . . got free and . . . and killed them—all of them . . .”

 

“And you're trying to justify his actions?”

 

She grimaced. Sometimes her father was far too perceptive . . . “No, not really . . . it was a long time ago, and . . . I can't say that I don't understand what he did or why he did it. He was seventeen at the time, and he watched them torture and kill his family, you know? If it had been you and Mama and Lexi and Sami . . .”

 

Kichiro cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was raw. “Yeah.”

 

Biting her lip, she took her time sipping the now-tepid tea before giving up on it and setting the mug aside. “He killed . . . humans, Papa: men, women . . . children . . . and I . . . well, I . . .”

 

“You, uh . . . You want to know if it's alright not to despise him for it.”

 

She grimaced at the harshness of his summation but nodded. “Y-yeah.”

 

Kichiro let out a deep breath. She heard the creak of his chair once more, heard the familiar tapping of his claws drumming on the pasteboard blotter on his desktop. In her mind, she could see the trademark furrow of his brow as he contemplated what he ought to tell her. She knew that expression, and as much as she had dreaded it, she also knew that somehow, her father wouldn't fail to help her understand her feelings, regardless of his own opinion on the matter. He was one of the few people she knew who could be objective almost always, and maybe that was the real reason she'd called him, after all . . .

 

“Isabelle,” -she winced at the use of her given name— “do you honestly think that I `m going to try to tell you how you should feel? When have I ever done that, hmm?”

 

“It's not that, Papa,” she said. “It's just . . . you . . . Grandpa InuYasha . . . Grandpa Cain . . . everyone . . . you've always told me that it's wrong to hurt humans, and . . . and women and children? But I . . .”

 

“You love him,” he concluded when she trailed off. It wasn't a question, and there was nothing behind Kichiro's tone than the normal pragmatic way that he normally stated things.

 

“More than anything,” she admitted.

 

Kichiro grunted. “Sometimes when you love someone, you have to accept things; even things that you might not like or understand. He's old, isn't he?”

 

She frowned at his abrupt question and shook her head in confusion. “I suppose, but I don't see what—”

 

“Let me tell you something, all right? Something that you might not have figured out yet.”

 

“Okay,” she said slowly, dubiously.

 

“The mind is a strange thing. In some people, it convinces them that what they did was right and just, regardless of what the laws might dictate. In others, it can be far worse than any punishment that could or should have been dished out at the time. It just depends on the person, so the real question that you should be asking yourself is which kind of person is your Griffin?”

 

“He's a good man,” she replied indignantly, her anger rising at the perceived questioning of Griffin's character.

 

Kichiro sighed at her outburst. “Think about it this way: your great-uncle could have done something if he thought that it was warranted, and it's true that he might not have heard about the situation until well after the fact, but the point remains that there isn't much that gets past Sesshoumaru, so I have to wonder exactly why it was that he didn't do something about it at the time. I don't agree with the killing of women and children, nor do I think that the killing, itself, brought any real closure to it, but . . .” He paused here as though to gather his thoughts again. Isabelle waited in silence for him to continue. “I know you. Hell, they don't say you're your father's daughter for nothing. I also know that there has to be something special about this bear or you wouldn't waste your time on him, to start with. Am I right?”

 

She smiled just a little, pushing herself to her feet and wandering around the living room, shuffling over to the window to stand in the patches of sunlight filtering through the clear glass panes. “He works with children, did you know? Volunteers at a local preschool . . . and he has a Sunday school class that comes over so he can teach them things . . . all sorts of things . . . and I watch him with those children, and I just can't . . . I can't imagine him doing anything to hurt them. That's just not the Griffin that I know.”

 

“Mm. Sounds like he's one hell of a guy.”

 

Her smile widened as she pushed the gauzy curtain aside to stare out at the sun glistening off the tired snow in the yard. Little footprints marred the smooth surface—the silent reminders of the weekend visitors that had attended Griffin's Sunday morning class. “He is, Papa. He . . . he's kind of like you.”

 

“Maybe those children are a part of his penance,” Kichiro ventured with a warm chuckle. “Maybe it's his way of trying to make amends.”

 

She hadn't thought of it that way, had she? At least, she hadn't really thought of it that way as more than a passing thought, at best, but what her father said . . . it made sense, didn't it? While Griffin might not admit as much to her, it didn't really matter in the end . . .

 

“The old man told me a story once. He said that he nearly lost control of his youkai blood. He cut down a gang of bandits without a second thought, and he said that he enjoyed it. Said that it was the most frightening thing that he'd ever experienced in his life. He said that they were begging for their lives, and he . . . well, you get the picture.”

 

“Grandpa . . .” she murmured.

 

“Mm, your grandfather,” Kichiro agreed, his voice muffled by a mug—probably coffee. “Anyway, my point is, he isn't a bad person, either. People make mistakes: big, small, justified, unjustified . . . it's one of the things that can't be helped. It's what we learn from those things that makes us into worthwhile beings in the end. Your Griffin—the man you know now . . . do you think that it is any different for him?”

 

She pondered that for a moment, wondering exactly how it was that her father could understand people on a level that she'd never be able to duplicate. What he said made sense, didn't it, and not simply because she wanted it to be so. As his words sank in, the worry that had been nagging at her all day seemed to fade, too, and the smile that surfaced on her lips was true, genuine. The Griffin that she'd come to know and adore was the same man when all was said and done, wasn't he, and Kichiro was right. She didn't have to understand or condone his actions in the past in order to love him, and what was more, he needed that love. She knew he did. “Thanks, Papa,” she said, blinking rapidly against the suspect stinging behind her eyelids.

 

“What for?” he deadpanned.

 

“For being you.”

 

“Wow,” he joked, “don't think I've ever been thanked for that.”

 

“You should be.”

 

“Tell that to your mama,” he remarked dryly with an indelicate snort.

 

Isabelle's smile turned impish. “You mean she doesn't know that?”

 

“I don't know, but it never hurts to remind her, does it?”

 

She rolled her eyes, shifting the cell phone from one side of her head to the other. “Papa, while I've got you here . . .”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Griffin has problems sometimes,” she went on, hoping that he could help her with this problem, as well. “I mean, it seems like he's really hurting; like his scars are bothering him more.”

 

“Scar tissue can do that, especially if there's a lot of it on or around his joints.”

 

“But that could be fixed, right? A good plastic surgeon could fix it . . .”

 

He chuckled at her not-so-subtle hint. “Have one in mind?” he quipped innocently.

 

Isabelle wrinkled her nose and walked over, retrieving her tea mug off the table on her way toward the kitchen to make a fresh cup. “Well, there is this one . . . they say he's brilliant, did you know?”

 

“Brilliant?” he echoed, his amusement evident. “Anyone I know?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

He laughed outright at that. “Have you talked this over with him?”

 

“Not yet, but . . . well, we fell asleep on the recliner last night, and this morning, he was having so much trouble. He tried to hide it, of course, bu-u-ut . . .”

 

“I think you should talk to him about it before you try to talk me into flying over there,” he pointed out reasonably. “I'd imagine that reconstructive surgery might help, but it'd be pretty hard to get a good idea of the amount of help it would provide unless I actually examine him.”

 

She sighed, undaunted by his cryptic tone. “He's . . .” she paused, searching for the right word to explain her thoughts and shook her head when she couldn't do it. “He just seems . . . I don't know: overprotective? That's not the right word—umm . . . well, like he doesn't want to fix them, I guess . . .”

 

He considered that then sighed. “He thinks he deserves them,” he concluded almost matter-of-factly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Makes sense,” he allowed in a tone that bespoke his understanding. “Another part of his penance, maybe. Do his scars bother you?”

 

“No!” she blurted vehemently. “I mean, they don't bother me. I love him—everything about him. I don't want to change him, but he really has problems with his mobility . . . and he . . .” she sighed, hooking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she poured hot water into the mug. Recalling the look of absolute disgust on his features this morning when he'd had to struggle to get to his feet, his jaw bulging as he gritted his teeth, his brow breaking out in a fine sheen of sweat as he stubbornly refused to let her help him, she sighed. “He gets so angry with himself,” she admitted.

 

“All the more reason why you need to talk it over with him before we discuss this any further,” Kichiro maintained. “He's a proud man, isn't he? Do you really want to step on that pride of his?”

 

“Of course not,” she mumbled, yanking the lid off the honey jar with a rather vicious twist. “Pride shouldn't have anything to do with this; not if it'll help him.”

 

Kichiro sighed then laughed softly. “Pride shouldn't have anything to do with it, no, but . . .”

 

She slumped against the counter and caught the phone, crossing her free hand over her chest as she stared at the steeping tea. “I just want to help him, Papa,” she said.

 

“I'm sure, but Baby-Belle . . .”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You know, daughter of mine,” he began, his chuckle soft, warm—reassuring—though his answer was a little longer in coming, “maybe you already have.”

 

 

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

A/N:

Thanks, you all. Just an update. My brother's got a pretty long road ahead of him. He'll likely be in the hospital for the next six months and then in outpatient therapy for about a year, but he should live, which is a huge relief. Things are still a bit strained ATM, though. I'll update again when I can.

== == == == == == == == == ==

Reviewers

==========

MMorg

theblackthorn ------ Simonkal of Inuy ------ mrskcgoodman ------ Sunekai ------ Usagiseren05 ------ Ultra_Violet ------ ladygeri ------ Jester08 ------ FriskyPixie ------ lere ------ Ayame87 ------ Starr Stealer ------ Chase65 ------ sunshine161820 ------ iloveanimecartoons ------ OROsan0677 ------ Ayita (Prayer is a beautiful thing, IMO, and thanks!) ------ inuyashaloverr ------ Death-By-Minnow ------ Sesshomaru4Kagura4ever ------ Sunekai ------ Dark Inu Fan ------ jessie6491

==========

Forum Reviews

Proforce ------ cutechick18 ------ atticus ----- pionus ------ sueroxmysox ------ OROsan0677 ------ BENGbeng ------ psycho_chick32 ------ Andrew ------ DreamLOVE ------ Claire

==========

Final Thought:

Gavin's Youkai: humming the Mission Impossible theme.

Gavin: … Shuddup …

==========

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~