InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Impossible ( Chapter 72 )

~~Chapter 72~~

~Impossible~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin scowled at the entirely mocking glimmer of the simple yet beautiful ring nestled in the bed of velvet inside the jeweler's box. Ignoring the chill in the air that rattled over him with a vicious tenacity, he let out a long, drawn out sigh and slowly shook his head.

 

Why in the world was asking one simple question so damn difficult?

 

Oh, it had seemed easy enough, hadn't it? The principle behind it was completely, almost ridiculously, elementary: ask her to marry him. She was his mate, after all, and that should speak volumes, right?

 

Wrong, apparently.

 

He'd come close a number of times in the nearly two months since he'd bought the stupid ring. The best opportunity that he'd had was on their two month anniversary—a date that he'd noticed when he'd looked at the calendar on his desk at the university, but he honestly hadn't thought that she'd think twice about it. To his surprise, though, she had greeted him when he'd walked through the door a few hours later in a short but demure black dress with a smile and her head tilted to the side as she worked at putting in a small diamond stud earring. He'd let her talk her into taking her out to taking her to dinner at the quiet seafood restaurant that he favored, and after tripping over his tongue a few times while he tried to make sense of the idea that she looked absolutely stunning—while he tried to grasp the knowledge that she really was his—his mate, his life, his . . . everything.

 

Still, it wasn't until they were lying in bed that night that he'd realized that he'd missed a perfect opportunity to ask her the question that was close to driving him mad. He'd had the damn ring in his pocket all evening—to be honest, he'd carried the stupid thing with him everywhere since he'd bought it, just waiting for a good time to garner the courage to ask her, and yet . . .

 

He sighed again, lifting his face to scowl at the overcast skies above as the wind ripped through his hair, stinging his eyes when he refused to blink. The main problem, he knew, was that he just kept backing down. If he'd tried to ask her once, he'd tried a thousand times, and each time, he'd chickened out at the last moment, normally ending up asking something completely inane, and all because he just couldn't seem to find the words to ask her the question that was first and foremost in his mind.

 

“Isabelle?”

 

Glancing up from the novel she was reading, she spared a moment to smile at him though she didn't set the book aside. “Hmm?”

 

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Slowly, her smile faltered, only to be replaced by a concerned sort of expression. “Griffin? Are you all right?”

 

“Uh, y-yeah. Fine,” he blurted, quickly turning away before she could discern too much. “I, um, I-I was going to get a cup of tea. Thought I'd ask if you . . . wanted one . . .”

 

“Oh,” she replied, her voice registering her relief as she turned her attention back to the book once more. “Okay, sure . . . thanks . . .”

 

And it had gone like that pretty much every time he thought to ask her the million dollar question.

 

What if she said, `no' . . .?

 

That was it: the awful truth. As much as he tried to tell himself that he was being ridiculous, the fear was still there. If he asked, and she said that she didn't want to marry him . . .

 

Wincing as the bitter spike of bile rose in his throat, he couldn't help but feel completely foolish. Too bad that he couldn't seem to remember that when he was staring at her . . .

 

`You know, Griffin, I've been thinking . . .'

 

Snapping out of his reverie at the almost timid quality in his youkai's voice, Griffin blinked and lowered his face as his grip on the ring box tightened. `About what?' he asked, unsure if he really wanted to hear it or not.

 

`Well . . . maybe it'd be easier if you, you know, practiced or something . . .'

 

`Practiced . . .?'

 

`Sure . . . if you practice enough, then maybe it will be easier when you do it for real.'

 

He snorted loudly since he highly doubted that much of anything would make it `easier'. Still, he had to admit, however grudgingly, that the idea of practicing did have its merit . . .

 

So it was with that idea firmly in his head that Griffin cleared his throat. “I-Isabelle, I was . . . wondering . . .”

 

Grimacing as an uncomfortable heat infiltrated his cheeks, he couldn't help the feeling that he was being a complete idiot.

 

A chattering squirrel drew his attention, and he narrowed his eyes. The creature was staring at him, seemingly demanding another ear of corn since it had already managed to strip the first one bare. It had also gotten used to the ruckus that Charlie made every morning, too. Since Griffin refused to let the dog outside while he was feeding the squirrels and enjoying his morning cup of tea, the dog had developed the worst habit of sitting just inside the door, scratching pathetically in hopes that he would be able to garner Griffin's pity. It never had worked, but that didn't dissuade the animal from trying.

 

But the squirrel seemed entirely set on getting more food, and Griffin blinked when it rattled off a series of squeaks.

 

“Forget it, you,” Griffin muttered with a shake of his head as he shoved the ring box into his pocket. “I know damn well that winter's coming, but you're getting fat—almost as fat as that woman who's probably still sleeping . . .”

 

The squirrel tipped its head to the side and chattered a bit more.

 

“I don't care if you . . .” Trailing off as his eyes flared wider, Griffin suddenly turned on his heel and strode toward the back door.

 

It didn't take long for him to fetch another ear of corn from the paper bag under the kitchen sink, and he was outside again before he knew it, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that was laughing at him. It took even less time to stick the new ear on the spike, and for once, he tossed the empty cob in the general direction of the pile by the kiln instead of walking over to deposit it.

 

Turning back to the squirrel who was opting to ignore him as it worked on the new ear he'd put out, Griffin licked his lips and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You're going to help me,” he told the squirrel. “I fed you, so you can humor me.”

 

That earned him a cursory glance. He figured that was good enough. Satisfied that the squirrel would sit still long enough for him to practice on something living so that he wouldn't feel quite as stupid as he did when he was talking to himself, he slowly pulled the ring out of his pocket again and carefully opened the lid . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“They'll agree to come, won't they?”

 

Cain Zelig smiled down at his mate as he held out his hand to help her out of the vehicle. “I hope so.”

 

Gin wrinkled her nose then shot him one of her absolutely adorable grins, wrapping her arms protectively around the small wicker basket she'd brought along. “Oh, they just have to!” she intoned stubbornly. “After all, Kichiro and Bellaniece are flying in, and she can't possibly have to work on Christmas this year, too! And I know he hasn't said anything, but it has to bother him that she's not made it back to Japan for his birthday parties, too . . .”

 

Cain nodded vaguely but didn't respond since he figured that his granddaughter's conspicuous absence from the holiday festivities the last couple years had more to do with her desire to spend the special days with Griffin Marin than it did because of her work schedule. Damned if he'd tell Gin that, though.

 

“Do you suppose that she'd reconsider if I cried a little bit?”

 

Cain blinked, his mouth dropping open as he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his mate. “Gin!” he chastised, wondering where she'd gotten a foul idea like that. “Don't you think that'd be a little underhanded? And you shouldn't make her feel bad if she really does have to be on call.”

 

Her expression clouded over and settled on a mulish sort of frown, and she crossed her arms over her chest but stubbornly held her ground. “It was just an idea,” she muttered, her hanyou ears flattening against her skull momentarily.

 

Shaking his head slowly, he slipped an arm around his mate's waist and started toward the house once more. He stopped again, though, when he caught Griffin's scent on the wind. He was outside, wasn't he? Steering Gin to the side, he pulled her along toward the corner of the house. “We'll ask, all right?” he offered, his tone gentler since she still seemed a little upset over his terse reprimand.

 

That seemed to pacify Gin, and she smiled up at him once more as he led the way around the house toward the back yard. “Oh, there he is!” she chimed, increasing her pace when she spotted the bear-youkai. Cain caught her hand before she could hurry over since it seemed like the man was talking to . . . someone . . . though there was no one else outside. “Cain, I—”

 

Cutting her off by lifting a finger to his lips, Cain shook his head quickly and waited. The wind was blowing in their faces, effectively preventing Marin from smelling them, and at the same time, it carried the sound of Griffin's voice to them, too.

 

“W-w-w-will you marry . . . me?” he'd said.

 

Cain blinked in surprise. Gin's mouth rounded in an `oh', and she stood stock still for a moment before tugging firmly on Cain's forearm. “Did he just . . . ask that squirrel to . . . marry him . . .?” she whispered without taking her eyes off the youkai.

 

Cain had to press his lips tightly together to keep from barking out a very unwelcome laugh. “Yes,” he said, leaning down to murmur into his wife's ear after clearing his throat, “I think he did.”

 

“Oh . . . my . . .” she replied slowly. She glanced at Cain and grinned. “Do you think she'll say `yes'?”

 

He could feel his lips twitching, though to his credit, he managed not to laugh out loud. After taking another few seconds to compose himself completely, he cleared his throat very loudly and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

 

Griffin whipped around, his face blossoming in indignant color when he spotted the Zeligs standing near the corner of the house. “Afternoon, Griffin,” Cain said in a conversational tone.

 

The bear relaxed just a little though Cain would hardly call his stance `casual'. “H-hi,” he murmured. “I-Isabelle's still sleeping.”

 

Gin stepped forward, extending the basket of freshly baked cookies she'd packed up especially for Griffin. “That's okay,” she said brightly. “I wanted to drop these off . . . they're pecan shortbread cookies. Bitty said you like them.”

 

He stared at her for a long moment before finally reaching out reluctantly to take the basket. “Uh, thanks.”

 

“We . . . were hoping to talk to you, actually,” Cain went on, drawing Griffin's attention away from the gift. He could tell that the youkai was trying not to peek. He could also tell that Griffin was sniffing to ascertain whether or not Gin had spoken the truth. “It's about Christmas.”

 

“Christmas?” Griffin echoed, grudgingly tearing his gaze off the basket. “It's a little early for that, isn't it?”

 

Cain shrugged. “Probably, but . . . we wanted to make sure that you knew that you're welcome to spend the holiday with us. In fact, my daughter and her assmon—Ow!” Gin elbowed him in the ribs none-too-gently, and he snorted and made a face. He couldn't help it, damn it. Old habits died hard, wasn't that the saying? “. . . and Gin's brother will be flying in, too. It'd be a shame if Isabelle missed her parents, after all.”

 

True to form, Griffin looked like he was thinking about panicking. Cain shot him an easy grin. “Just think about it?”

 

Griffin nodded once, his jaw set in a stubborn sort of expression, and for a moment, Cain wondered if the youkai was trying to fabricate a reason why it just wasn't going to be possible. He really ought to have known better, he supposed. “Y-you could probably wake her up now,” Griffin muttered, inclining his head in the direction of the house. “I mean, she . . . she might get upset if you don't say hello while you're here.”

 

Gin nodded and laughed as she pushed away from Cain and darted across the yard toward the porch. No sooner had she disappeared inside than Griffin delved into that basket and shoved a whole cookie into his mouth.

 

Cain cleared his throat and tried not to smile. “So, uh . . . you looked a little busy when we got here,” he remarked lightly.

 

Griffin choked on the cookie just a little and swallowed a few times to force it down. “Oh? Ah . . . n-no . . .”

 

“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the nondescript jeweler's box clenched tightly in Griffin's free hand.

 

Griffin's expression shifted into alarm, and he jerked his head once despite the utter panic that flashed over his features.

 

Cain took his time examining the simple but elegant piece as a small smile quirked his lips. “That's . . . a hell of a ring,” he finally said, quietly closing the box and extending it to Griffin.

 

Griffin took it and nodded, his cheeks a ruddy shade as he tried not to shuffle his feet. “I thought . . . she'd . . . she'd like . . . it . . . maybe . . .”

 

“I don't think the ring will matter to her as much as the one giving it.”

 

Griffin winced. “. . . Yeah . . .”

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“So how much did they hit you up for?”

 

Griffin glanced at Isabelle and dropped three boxes of candy in her lap without pausing as he headed for the sanctity of his recliner with the newspaper tucked carefully under his arm. “Good thing they weren't selling encyclopedias or something,” he muttered.

 

She giggled and read the boxes: two peanut butter chocolate crumbles and one triple chocolate supreme mints. “You're such a softie,” she commented much to his dismay. “Do you always buy stuff from the neighborhood kids?”

 

“Normally I just give them cash donations,” he said as he shook out the newspaper and buried his face from her view.

 

Curbing her desire to laugh outright since the implied meaning of his statement was clear enough, she set two of the boxes on the coffee table and proceeded to open the third one. “So you're saying that you bought the candy for me,” she concluded as she popped a mint into her mouth.

 

“Not like you need it,” he informed her in his usual brusque tone.

 

“Hmm,” she drawled, taking a moment to savor the candy before she answered. “Are you going to be that much of a pushover for our pups?”

 

He sat stone still for nearly a minute before shaking the paper and clearing his throat. “I'm not a pushover,” he retorted.

 

“Sure, you are—all good fathers are.”

 

He snorted loudly and scrunched down a little further in the recliner. “Not going to happen,” he muttered in a voice barely above a whisper.

 

Her smile faded almost instantly, and she bit her lip as she cocked her head to the side to stare at him. Hidden as he was behind the newspaper, though, she couldn't see his face to gauge whether or not he was being serious. “Oh? Why's that?” she ventured, careful to keep her tone as neutral as she could manage.

 

“W-we've talked about this before, Jezebel,” he pointed out in a low rumble. “I told you then that it isn't possible.”

 

Biting her lip, she tried to figure out exactly what he meant. Most of the time she knew when he was kidding, but now . . . Now, she just couldn't tell.

 

“You . . . really don't want pups?” she forced herself to ask as she let her gaze drop to the candy boxes on the coffee table. She could feel his eyes light on her though he didn't move the newspaper. No, he was peering around it, wasn't he? Forcing her expression to blank, she pressed her lips together in an effort to keep herself from giving anything away. She'd never stopped to think about it, had she? She'd always just assumed . . . assumed that children would come part and parcel with the deal, but . . .

 

Wincing despite her best efforts to the contrary, she blinked fast to stave back a sheen of suspect moisture that rose to glaze over her vision.

 

`You can't blame him, can you? Think about it: what happened to his family—to his sister . . . even if he doesn't think he's a monster any longer, that doesn't mean that he feels any less responsible, and in the end, what can you possibly say that could convince him otherwise?'

 

That was true, wasn't it? It was absolutely possible, after all. As much as she believed that he was wonderful; truly deserving of everything life had to offer, Griffin . . . What he thought mattered so much more . . .

 

Griffin snorted loudly. “I've told you, Jezebel: no pups, ever.”

 

“I . . . see . . .” she managed to say. She even managed a weak little smile that she was far from feeling.

 

The newspaper rattled as Griffin ducked behind it once more. “Can't have pups, anyway. Bears have cubs.”

 

It took a moment for the subtleties of his words to sink in, and even when they did, she still wasn't entirely certain that she dared to understand what he'd said. It wasn't that he was against the idea of having babies, was it? He was . . . arguing over the term she'd used . . .?

 

But he wasn't done talking, either. “I'm the . . . the dominant mate, so if we . . . i-if we had . . . those . . . they'd be cubs, like me.”

 

“. . . Cubs . . .” she echoed quietly, closing her eyes for just a moment as a rush of relief made her feel a little lightheaded. “Because you're . . . dominant.”

 

He snorted loudly and shook the paper again. “Y-yes.”

 

Breaking into a brilliant smile, Isabelle blinked quickly to stave back unwelcome tears. With a strangled gasp, she shot off the sofa and across the room, smashing the newspaper against Griffin's chest as she threw herself on him. Impatiently shoving the rumpled paper away from his face, she kissed him despite his half-hearted protests as she laughed, as she cried, as she left him completely baffled and breathless.

 

“What's—wrong—with—you?” he demanded between kisses. Pushing her back far enough to scowl at her, he looked completely, adorably confused.

 

“I'll bet our sons will be just gorgeous, like you,” she assured him with a watery smile.

 

His mouth fell open and his face turned red, and he looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out exactly what it might be. In the end, he pulled her against his chest, smashing her cheek against his shoulder with his hand firmly pressing against her forehead. “You . . . you're completely bent, you know,” he muttered.

 

“Maybe,” she agreed, closing her eyes as she savored the complete and welcome comfort of Griffin's heartbeat. “I'd love to have your babies,” she murmured softly.

 

Griffin sighed though it wasn't an irritated sort of sound. No, it was more of a contented sort of exhalation than anything, and her smile widened. There really wasn't any way that she could possibly love him more, was there?

 

As he stroked her hair with his infinitely gentle hands, she snuggled closer. No, she didn't think that she could . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin wasn't surprised to hear the clock on the mantle in the living room chime the hour. The sound was soft, unobtrusive, dulled by the floor above.

 

`Three a.m.,' he thought with a sigh. Gritting his teeth at the creeping sense of irritation that he'd been trying to ignore, he frowned at the silly caricature of a cat, lying on her back, swatting at a ball of yarn suspended over her head, he was carving—their cat, poised in the undignified fashion that tended to make Isabelle laugh hysterically.

 

Odd, really. He'd never noticed it before, had he? It hadn't ever been an issue. True enough, he never had slept very well, and he couldn't tolerate staying in one position that long. His body was just too damaged, and he'd always known that, too. He'd known, and yet . . .

 

And yet, it was frustrating, wasn't it? All he wanted to do was to stay in bed with his mate, to savor the feeling of well-being that he was slowly growing accustomed to.

 

It felt like he was just spending his life, butting up against one obstacle or another, damn it.

 

`Isn't that what life's about?'

 

Heaving a sigh, Griffin grunted at the pragmatic tone in his youkai's voice. He didn't think it deserved an answer, though.

 

`Oh, come on, Marin! Grow a thicker skin, won't you? After all, you know as well as I do that the world is really not out to get you. Live and learn and be glad for the things that you have been given, right? Isn't that what you've always thought?'

 

`Not always, no,' he growled, wincing as he passed the sculpture from his left hand to his right one. Stretching his fingers out, he heaved a sigh as his joints popped and cracked. The cold air of the changing season had tightened him up of late, making him feel just a little clumsier, a little more self-conscious.

 

Even then, every time he talked himself into being somewhat comfortable with his life in general, something else always seemed to rise up, didn't it?

 

“Are you going to be that much of a pushover for our pups?”

 

Good God, just why did that particular statement scare the hell out of him? To be frank, he'd never, ever considered the idea that he would have children, and sure, maybe it was the natural question, given the circumstances, but damn it . . .

 

Griffin snorted as he turned his attention back to the sculpture in his hand. If he could just get his fingers to stop shaking . . .

 

The question was entirely moot, wasn't it? After all, he couldn't even bring himself to ask the woman to marry him. Sure, she was his mate, and yes, she was pretty well stuck with him, and as far as he could tell, she seemed to be happy with that. She'd never actually said that she didn't want to marry him, no, but then, she'd never actually said that she did want to, either. Thing was, if he couldn't get up the nerve to ask her that one simple question, then having babies was just completely out of the question, right? He'd be damned if his children would be born into a family where the mother and father were still two entirely separate entities. It just . . . well, it wasn't right . . .

 

`You're just using that as an excuse, aren't you?'

 

`What do you mean?'

 

`Be real, Griffin. Do you really think you can be a father? How can you when you barely remember your own?'

 

`I remember him well enough,' Griffin argued with a shake of his head. `I . . . I remember . . .'

 

`So . . . you do want cubs.'

 

A slow, reluctant smile quirked the corners of his lips, tempered only by the weight of the cautious hope that he wasn't entirely certain he had a right to feel. A child? His child? His and . . . and Isabelle's . . . a sweet little girl with her mother's eyes, her mother's laugh . . . A little girl with golden bronze hair and a soft little dimple in her cheek . . .

 

Carefully refreshing his grip on the intricate piece—he was going to give it to Isabelle for Christmas—his forehead furrowed in abject concentration. He was almost finished . . .

 

Scraping gently as he worked to give texture to the ball of yarn suspended over the cat's head, Griffin grunted, biting down hard as a spasm shot through his hand. In the space of an instant, the precariously thin bit of wood that connected the ball of yarn and the cat's paw broke—snapped in half in his palm.

 

Staring at the mangled bit of scrap, he heaved a sigh and slowly shook his head.

 

“So this is where you are.”

 

Sparing a moment to glance at Isabelle—wrapped up in a thick gray wool robe and looking entirely bleary-eyed and rumpled—as she stepped off the bottom step and wandered toward him.

 

Griffin pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to the fireplace. “Why aren't you still sleeping?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unfriendly.

 

Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she sidled up to him, slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. “I missed my teddy bear,” she admitted.

 

He snorted, clumsily putting his arms around her, too. “I couldn't sleep,” he muttered.

 

“Hmm,” she drawled, her eyes closed, and for a moment, he wondered if she were going to fall asleep standing up. “Is your back bothering you again?”

 

“Uh, no,” he admitted then shook his head. It wasn't entirely a lie, after all. It wasn't his back. It was his hip, damn it . . .

 

She gasped when he adjusted his hold on her, and she craned her head to peer over her shoulder at the suspect lump that was smashed into her back. “What's . . .? Aww,” she breathed as she gently pulled the broken sculpture out of his hand. “Your hands are bothering you again, aren't they?”

 

He shrugged in what he hoped was an offhanded manner, taking the bits of wood and chucking them into the roaring flames. “It's not a big deal.”

 

She watched him as he turned away and moved back toward the sofa. He could feel her gaze on him even if he were too stubborn to verify it. Taking his time selecting a small block of wood from the box under the end table, he heard her footsteps padding closer.

 

“You know,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, reluctant, “my father . . . maybe he could help you.”

 

His head snapped to the side to stare at her, his features contorting into a thoughtful scowl. She was looking the other way, her cheeks tinged with rosy color, as though she wasn't entirely certain that she ought to be suggesting anything of the sort to him. “What do you . . .?”

 

Clearing her throat, though, she plunged on, “Not that I think there's anything wrong with you, because I don't, but . . . but some of your scar tissue is affecting your mobility and circulation . . . that's just not good for you, you know!”

 

He swallowed hard and glanced over his shoulder at the fire, like he could make out the now charring wood that he'd just thrown into it. But it was more than that, wasn't it? More than just a broken carving . . . “Isabelle . . .”

 

“I know what you're going to say,” she interrupted as she finally looked at him, offering him a very contrite little grin. “I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I'm just . . . giving you options. It's entirely up to you if you want to talk to Papa about it.”

 

He didn't answer one way or another, but he did nod once to indicate that he'd heard her, that he'd think about it. She seemed satisfied enough with that, and her smile that rewarded him was brilliant. Bracing himself on his knees, he pushed himself to his feet without bothering to select a new block of wood. “Y-you should go back to bed,” he mumbled. “You're still tired.”

 

“Will you come upstairs? Just for a little while?”

 

Griffin nodded, knowing that she wasn't asking him to come to bed with her. No, she was just asking that he sit with her until she went to sleep, and for some reason, her acute understanding . . . why did it irritate him even more? “I have to bank the fire,” he told her.

 

She nodded and leaned up to kiss his cheek. He watched in silence as she headed up the stairs once more.

 

He sighed, stepping toward the hearth once more to bank the fire for the night.

 

“My father . . . maybe he could help you . . .”

 

Griffin scowled. Kichiro Izayoi—the genius surgeon . . . Even if he could help, did Griffin really have the right to ask? His scars . . . people had paid for them with their lives, hadn't they? Did he honestly have the right to ask for any kind of relief?

 

His sister . . . his parents . . . Daniella Cavendish . . . and even Sebastian Cavendish . . . They couldn't ask to be `fixed', could they? And yet Griffin . . . he'd lived, and wasn't that enough of a reprieve for the likes of him?

 

Letting out a deep breath—more of a sigh than an exhalation—Griffin stood before the muted flames and pulled the velvet ring box from his pocket. The fabric was wearing thin on the edges of the box since he'd been carrying it nonstop since the day he'd purchased it.

 

A familiar sense of disgust rose up in him, and he grimaced. What he needed to do was stop thinking about everything at once and concentrate on one thing at a time, right? That meant the most important thing at present was forcing himself to ask Isabelle the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for the last few weeks . . .

 

Grasping the ring box tightly in his hand, he stomped toward the staircase. He was going to ask her tonight, damn it. He was going to ask her right now . . .

 

A fierce determination goaded him forward, up the steps, through the house, down the hallway. Striding into the bedroom they shared, he opened his mouth to blurt out the question, only to stop short at the vision that greeted him.

 

She had gone back to bed, of course. Curled on her side with her hand resting atop her pillow, her hair cascading around her, shining like molten gold, she was sleeping, which really shouldn't have surprised him, given that it was three in the morning. She hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before. She'd met with Cain Zelig's generals to brief them on the progress of the research, and she'd been too nervous to sleep well . . .

 

Still, Griffin couldn't help the new dose of irritation that choked him. Here he was, determined to ask her the question that he'd been trying to give voice to for weeks, and . . . and she was thwarting him yet again, never mind that she had no idea that she was doing it, in the first place.

 

Well, that just figured, didn't it? A day late and a dollar short—the story of his life . . .

 

Stomping around the bed, he pulled the drawer in his nightstand open and started to drop the box in, then stopped. Maybe . . .

 

With a frown, he opened the box and carefully pulled out the ring, taking a moment to look it over with a critical eye before he sank down on the edge of the bed. If he could get the image into his head . . . what her hand looked like with the ring on her finger . . . maybe that would be enough to bolster his courage enough to ask the question later . . .

 

Before he could talk himself out of it, he gritted his teeth and slipped the ring onto her finger then leaned back and narrowed his gaze to get a good look at it. The delicate band shimmered, the diamond caught the ambient light of the small lamp that she'd left lit on her side of the bed. The platinum ring fit her just fine, and Griffin couldn't help the soft chuckle that slipped from him as he swallowed hard to dislodge the suspect lump that had risen to choke him.

 

It looked perfect, didn't it?

 

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring at the ring on her slender finger. Finally, though, he sighed, reaching out to pull the ring off her, satisfied that he'd done a good job of memorizing the way it had looked—the way it would look, just as soon as he gathered his wits enough to pop the question, that was . . .

 

Jerking his hand back when she uttered a small sound and balled her hand into a tight fist, Griffin scowled. She never did make things easy for him, did she? He tried again, but gave up when she started to shift around, though she didn't wake up.

 

`Well . . .'

 

His youkai snorted. `You have to do something, right? You can't just leave it there . . .'

 

Rolling his eyes, he started to reach out again. `I know that, damn it! I wasn't planning on just—Why can't I?'

 

`Why can't you, what?'

 

`Just leave it there.'

 

`Wh—No! No, no, no, no, a thousand times, no!'

 

`Well, she won't let me take it,' he reasoned.

 

`You can't do that! That's just . . . you have to ask her!'

 

`I . . . I tried! I've tried and tried, and she—'

 

`Then wake her up! You can't just slap that on her and . . . and what? Wait for her to figure it out?'

 

An oddly stubborn resolve settled over Griffin's features as he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. `Why not?'

 

His youkai groaned, loud and long. `You . . . you've got to be kidding me . . .'

 

Rolling his eyes, he stood up long enough to push back the covers and climb in beside her. As if she sensed him near, she shifted toward him, cuddling against his shoulder as he slipped his arms around her, and she still didn't stir.

 

Clasping her hand in his, he lifted it just enough to inspect the ring on her finger, ignoring the aspersions that his youkai was still casting.

 

So in an effort to placate the annoying voice, he sighed softly and stole a glance at her sleeping face. “I-Isabelle,” he said in a tone just barely above a whisper. “W . . . will you . . . marry . . . me?”

 

She didn't answer, and he hadn't expected that she would. Rolling his eyes, he jostled his shoulder in a pathetic effort to rouse her. Her head nodded slightly from the disturbance though she didn't wake, and Griffin grunted. `Th . . . there,' he pointed out, cutting off his youkai in mid-diatribe. `I asked . . . she nodded . . . Good enough.'

 

`That was—She didn't—You can't—That doesn't count!'

 

Griffin chuckled inwardly as his eyes drifted closed. `It counts,' he thought as he pulled Isabelle just a little closer . . . `It . . . counts . . .'

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought from Griffin's Youkai:

…That so does not count …

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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 InuYasha or 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~