InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Cold Feet ( Chapter 74 )

~~Chapter 74~~

~Cold Feet~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“So you're out here, are you? You're not hiding, right?”

 

Griffin started and whipped his head to the side just in time to see Ben Philips step out of the mansion.

 

“Uh, no,” he replied. “Just getting some air . . .”

 

“Christmas with the Zeligs' is a little . . . daunting, I suppose,” he went on in a conversational tone as he stopped beside him, staring out over the land in much the same way as Griffin had been doing before Ben had come outside. “You'll get used to it.”

 

“Will I?” Griffin replied, only half-joking.

 

Ben chuckled, digging one hand into his pocket and brushing the bangs off his face with the other. “From what I gathered, you'll be around quite awhile, won't you?”

 

Griffin didn't answer. He wasn't sure what he should say. Something about Ben was a little . . . Griffin frowned. Ben wasn't exactly intimidating, per se, no, but there really was something . . . almost regal about the man's bearing that was undeniable. Turning around and leaning against the high stone banister that surrounded the porch, Griffin frowned at the sight of the family inside the mansion. Gathered around the huge Christmas tree in the center of the living room, it seemed like the youngest of Zelig's sons must have done something to irritate his elder brother since Bas was currently busy stalking the younger, and Griffin shook his head. “Was that one dropped on his head when he was a baby?” he ventured, nodding toward the merriment inside.

 

Ben turned and chuckled. “I don't think so,” he allowed at length though his smile didn't dissipate. “He's always been a little . . . different.”

 

Griffin snorted at Ben's choice of words. “Different, huh?” he echoed with a shake of his head. “Seems a little demented, if you ask me.”

 

Ben opened his mouth to respond then snapped it closed and sighed, offering Griffin a somewhat sheepish grin. “That, too,” he agreed with a laugh. “Sometimes I think that Zelig might have been more like his younger than his elder son if things had been different . . .”

 

“God forbid.”

 

Ben nodded. “I've thought that, too.”

 

The two fell silent for a moment, and Griffin had a feeling that there was something that Ben wanted to say.

 

“Griffin . . .” he began but trailed off.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Ben rubbed his chin in a thoughtful sort of way, deliberately turning his attention to the picturesque view of the ocean instead. “Zelig mentioned something to me . . .”

 

“What's that?”

 

“Well,” he replied slowly, as though he had to measure his words carefully. “One of Zelig's generals has mentioned that he thinks he might retire soon.”

 

“I'm sure he'll find someone,” Griffin muttered, wondering vaguely where Ben was going with it.

 

Ben nodded. “He's thought of someone,” Ben went on. “Thing is, he's worried that if he were to ask, the man in question might feel . . . obligated to accept just because of who Zelig is.”

 

“That seems a little irrational,” Griffin said. “I mean, who in their right mind would accept something like that just because Zelig asked him to do it?”

 

“I'm glad you feel that way,” Ben commented with a grin. “You see, Zelig wants you.”

 

Griffin's head snapped to the side as his momentary surprise melted into a much darker expression. “M . . . me?”

 

“Yes, and if you want my opinion, I think you'd do a damn fine job.”

 

Griffin snorted indelicately. He couldn't help it. How ironic was it that he'd spent the better part of his existence trying to hide, and now . . .? “I don't think so,” he replied quietly. “I just . . . I just want to have a quiet life.”

 

Ben chuckled. “I didn't figure you'd accept,” he admitted. “Zelig wanted me to ask, though.”

 

“He could have asked me,” Griffin muttered.

 

Ben nodded. “He could have,” he agreed. “As I've said: he didn't want you to feel like you had to do it, though.”

 

“I'm not cut out to be a general,” Griffin said, turning around and hunching forward, resting his forearms on the snow-covered railing.

 

“Yeah,” Ben replied, mirroring Griffin's stance, his eyes following the same trail. “Just like Zelig was never cut out to be tai-youkai . . . Sometimes, though, I can't help but think maybe that's the reason why he's a damn good one.”

 

“I always thought he was fair,” Griffin pointed out almost stiffly.

 

Ben nodded again. “He is, to a fault.” He chuckled. “Don't get me wrong. Zelig's one of the best men I've ever known, and his son will be a damn fine tai-youkai, too. The difference is that Zelig is tai-youkai because he has to be. Sebastian . . . he'll be a damn fine tai-youkai because he wants to be.”

 

“You telling me that Zelig's going to hand it over?”

 

Ben shrugged then sighed, lifting his gaze upward as his condensed breath thinned and dissolved. “Maybe. Over two hundred years is a long time to carry that sort of burden if it isn't something that you want.”

 

Griffin digested that for a moment, seeing a lot of truth in what the panther-youkai was saying. “And you?”

 

Ben's smile turned enigmatic. “And I . . . I have nothing better to do at the moment.”

 

“That's . . . almost disappointing,” Griffin muttered, shaking his head despite the slight smile that had formed on his features.

 

Ben laughed—a deep, throaty sound. “Yes, well, the truth is rarely as poetic as it should be, don't you think?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Anyway,” Ben said, straightening up and clapping Griffin on the shoulder. “Think about it. Who knows? You might change your mind.”

 

Griffin didn't think that'd happen, but he nodded just the same. `Me? A general?' he scoffed as the sound of the sliding door followed Ben's departure. `Yeah . . . when hell freezes over . . .'

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“So, Dad . . . do you suppose you ought to stop them?”

 

Cain Zelig spared a moment to cast his eldest son a speculative glance before turning his attention back to the hanyou woman and the bear youkai sitting on the sofa, separated by Cain's granddaughter, Samantha, and deep in conversation. “It hasn't gotten too bad . . . yet . . .” Cain ventured.

 

Bas snorted and rolled his eyes. “She asked him . . . how big it is . . .” he reminded his father.

 

Cain chuckled. “So she did.”

 

Bas sighed and shook his head, reasonably reassured that his father really was just as demented as his younger brother, Evan, though maybe in a more understated sort of way.

 

And that was exactly how that particular conversation had started. Never mind that Gin knew what she was talking about. Having been immersed in a discussion of just how large Griffin Marin's youkai form was likely to be, Gin had gotten it into her head that she wanted to see it, and in true Gin form, she'd marched directly over to the man and asked him, point blank, “So how big is it?”

 

What was worse was that Griffin didn't seem to get the implications of that particular question, either, and while it was obvious that he wasn't sure what Gin was talking about, it was also obvious that he hadn't automatically thought of anything untoward, either.

 

“You know, right? Nothing good can come of this,” Bas remarked dryly.

 

“Hush,” Cain barked with a shake of his head. “I'm trying to listen.”

 

“I got to see Cain's once,” Gin was saying in a completely earnest way. “It was really big—huge . . . Just what you'd expect from the North American tai-youkai, I suppose. Did you ever see his father? Was he really big, too?”

 

Griffin shook his head slowly. “No, I, uh . . . I never saw that . . .”

 

Bas bit his lip. Hard.

 

“But I'll bet he was really impressive, too, wouldn't you say? I mean, he had to be. Strictly speaking, something like that would have to be inherent, right? So if Cain was big, then his father had to be, too! You know, my father said that my grandfather—I never met him—was enormous!”

 

Isabelle smiled as she settled onto the sofa on the other side of her mate. “Bigger than a breadbox, Grandma?” she quipped seconds before she kissed her mate's cheek, which, in turn, drew out a rather vivid flush.

 

Gin giggled. “I should hope so!” she replied. “He was the Inu no Taisho, after all! I wish I could have seen him just once!”

 

Griffin shot a quick glance at Isabelle and shrugged. “Well, I doubt I'm bigger than your, uh, mate,” he told Gin. “Besides, size doesn't really matter, does it?”

 

“Oh, no!” Gin insisted, laying a hand on Griffin's forearm. “It doesn't matter, but you have to admit: the bigger you are, the more impressive you look.”

 

Bas bit down harder.

 

“Oh . . . wow . . .” Cain breathed, covering his mouth with his hand.

 

“Now, Grandma, I assure you: Griffin is very, very impressive.”

 

“Is he? You've seen him?”

 

Personally, Bas had to wonder how Isabelle was able to keep a straight face, given the current topic. “I see him all the time,” she replied pleasantly.

 

“You know, I gotta say, I bet I'm more impressive than any of them,” Evan Zelig commented as he scooped his mother off the sofa and sat down with her in his lap.

 

Cain sighed. Bas groaned. The jig was up, or so it would seem.

 

Gin kissed her son's cheek and snuggled against his shoulder. “You can't transform, sweetie,” she reminded him.

 

Evan shot her a lazy grin—one that Bas was certain had gotten his brother into more than his fair share of trouble over the years. “You're talkin' `bout transforming? Hell, and here I thought you were talking about penises.”

 

It was Bas' turn to sigh. He'd figured that Evan would say something like that. Cain, the miscreant, chuckled, and with an entirely smug sort of grin, he wandered across the room to retrieve his mate. “If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: don't say `penis' in front of your mother,” Cain said, taking a token swing at Evan's head. Evan ducked out of the way as his cheesy grin widened. “It makes her uncomfortable.”

 

“Sorry, Mama,” Evan said in a completely insincere tone of voice as he tightened his arms around her simply to thwart his father, no doubt. “Would it be better if I said `weenie'? `Winkie'? `Pi-chan'?”

 

Gin's giggling escalated as she buried her face against Evan's shoulder, her face as red as the Christmas sweater she was wearing. “We weren't talking about . . . that!” Gin insisted, her voice muffled by Evan's body.

 

“Whose `pi-chan' are we discussing?” Kichiro asked as he wandered into the living room from the kitchen.

 

“No one's,” Cain remarked mildly.

 

“Mama wants to see Griffin's,” Evan replied.

 

Griffin might not have gotten the first part of the conversation, but judging from the look on his face at the moment, he certainly got the rest of it. Standing so abruptly that he bumped into the coffee table, he grimaced when the crystal vase in the center of the table wobbled. Cain grabbed it and steadied it, and with a mumbled apology, Griffin hurried out of the room as quickly as he could.

 

Bas sighed. To be honest, he couldn't blame the bear, not at all.

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle followed Griffin into the kitchen—blessedly empty since almost everyone had returned to the living room. “My family loves you, you know?” she remarked quietly, leaning against the side of the hulking refrigerator as she watched Griffin down a glass of water.

 

Griffin snorted and refilled the glass from the tap. “They're all just as messed up as you are,” he replied without glancing at her.

 

“Maybe,” she agreed. “I'm glad you wanted to come with me today.”

 

“Did you think I wouldn't?”

 

Isabelle shrugged and pushed herself away from the refrigerator. “No . . . but I'm still glad that you did.”

 

“Christmas should be spent with family,” she went on. “I suppose that we'll stay home after we have babies of our own, but for now, it's nice to see everyone . . .”

 

She didn't miss the obvious reluctance on Griffin's part at the mere mention of children, and while Isabelle understood the reticence, she knew well enough that he wouldn't talk about what it was that truly bothered him until he was ready. “Griffin . . . can I ask you something?” she said at length when he didn't respond.

 

“Don't suppose I could stop you even if I wanted to,” he ventured.

 

She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and tried to come up with a neutral way to ask the question that had been bothering her the most. “Do you want children? Someday, I mean . . .”

 

He seemed startled by her query, and when he dared to glance at her, she could see the slight hint of panic lingering just below the surface. “I, uh . . . I-I-I mean, I haven't . . .”

 

She couldn't contain the grimace that shot to the fore when the glass he held in his hand slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floor.

 

“Damn it!” he hissed, hunkering down to pick up the pieces. His hands, she noticed, were shaking, and he struggled to grasp even the larger bits. Frustration tinged with a modicum of self-disgust delineated his features. A couple of times, he managed to lift a jagged piece of glass, only to lose his grip on them before he could get them more than a couple inches off the floor.

 

Isabelle knelt down to help. Griffin's terse growl stopped her. “No!” he snarled angrily, shoving her hands away. “I can do this!”

 

`His body's fighting him,' she thought though she didn't say it out loud. How often had she noticed over the time that she'd been with him that he just didn't have the dexterity that he ought to? How many times had she seen him struggle to do something that should have been simple, but to him . . . To him, it just wasn't.

 

“Griffin . . .”

 

Leaning back with a loud snort, he shook his head almost violently, his face darkening about four shades as his anger mounted. “B-b-babies?” he sputtered, pinning her with a fierce glare, narrowing his eyes as though he were trying to see into her head. “Why? So I can . . . can drop them? Hurt them? I-I can't even hold onto a . . . a damn glass, for God's sake! It's not bad enough that I can't stay in bed with . . . with you before my body goes haywire! I can't—” With a loud sigh, he rubbed his face with a trembling hand, his anger dissolving in the space of a moment. “I can't even hold onto a stupid glass,” he muttered once more.

 

“Do you really think you'd drop a child?” she asked gently, using a dishtowel to scoop together the broken glass.

 

Griffin grunted and shook his head, watching her quietly as she cleaned up the glass and dropped the towel into the trashcan.

 

“I . . . I don't want to find out,” he admitted.

 

“I really don't think—”

 

“There you are! We've been waiting for you two so we can open presents!”

 

Isabelle stifled a sigh and smiled indulgently at her youngest sister. Samantha waited while Griffin slowly got to his feet and held out a hand to help Isabelle. She intercepted the darkened expression on his face but didn't comment. Obviously, he didn't want to continue their discussion, especially in light of Samantha's avid interest.

 

She hung back as Samantha linked her arm through Griffin's and fairly dragged the man back into the living room as the smile died on Isabelle's face, only to be replaced by a thoughtful frown.

 

`He wouldn't drop our child,' she reasoned, crossing her arms over her chest in a completely stubborn affectation.

 

`He wouldn't purposefully, no, but you know as well as I do that accidents happen. Anyone can accidentally do something like that, whether they intend to or not, and you know something? If that happened—if he did inadvertently bobble his child—do you honestly believe that he wouldn't hate himself for it?'

 

Isabelle sighed, conceding that bit of logic since it made sense enough to her. Just last week, she'd treated a child whose mother had accidentally bopped his head against a low hanging cupboard over the bar in her kitchen. The woman had been sobbing despite the fact that her son was fine, so she knew well enough that it was entirely possible.

 

“We're waiting for you,” Kichiro said as he stepped into the kitchen.

 

Isabelle blinked and cast her father a wan smile in greeting. “Oh, I was . . .”

 

“You were worried about something?” he offered when she trailed off.

 

Letting her gaze fall to the floor where the glass had shattered, she shuffled her feet and fiddled with the hem of her peach angora sweater. “Griffin isn't sure that he wants children,” she blurted then grimaced. She really hadn't meant to say it out loud, but she just couldn't help herself, either.

 

“Why's that?” he asked in his legendary calm way.

 

She shook her head, trying to maintain a semblance of objectivity that she was far from feeling. “He's afraid he . . . would drop the child.”

 

Kichiro clucked his tongue and nodded slowly, and he didn't look entirely surprised by Isabelle's assertion, either. Taking his time as he smoothed his eyebrow, he considered her words then shrugged. “If he'd let me take a look at him, I'd be able to assess whether or not surgery could help him.”

 

“I know,” she replied. “I just don't know if he'd let you.”

 

Kichiro smiled and gave her a quick squeeze seconds before she felt the warmth of his lips press against her forehead. “Don't worry. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin scowled at his hand as he gingerly flexed his fingers to assess the incessant ache that had plagued him for the last few days without pause. `It's . . . getting worse . . .' he thought, wincing when a reverberating pain shot up his arm.

 

A loud round of laughter drifted through the ceiling from the living room above. Isabelle's parents had come back to the house after Christmas day spent with the Zeligs, probably because of the ritual that Isabelle had detailed after their own hasty retreat—something about Zelig punishing Gin for some perceived wrongdoing. In any case, the first count had sent the assembly scattering faster than yelling, “Fire!” in a crowded theater.

 

He'd stayed upstairs for awhile, at least until the pain in his hand had become too prevalent to easily mask. Then he'd sought out the relative sanctity of the basement, but he'd left the door open for once since Charlie was suffering distinct difficulty in deciding whether he wanted to be upstairs with their visitors or down here with him.

 

He had to admit, though, that the day had been pretty pleasant otherwise. Isabelle had gotten up unaccountably early, as anxious as a child to exchange gifts. She'd bought him some clothes and a huge tin of pecans along with a new watch and a few other odds and ends, and she'd seemed pleased by the gifts he'd gotten for her, too. Then she'd gone out of her way to cook breakfast for him, and while he wasn't exactly big on sweets, he had to admit that the maple pecan muffins she'd made really had been pretty damn good . . .

 

Even spending the day with her family at the Zelig mansion had proved enjoyable. Her family really wasn't nearly as bad as he would have liked to believe, and he even liked a few of them, though if he were to be completely honest, he'd also have to admit that more than a few of the women scared him, especially Sydnie. The cat youkai and wife of the future tai-youkai was, in his opinion, far more intimidating than her mate . . .

 

Grunting when a stabbing pain protested the methodical motion of his hand and fingers, Griffin shook his head. He hadn't meant to blow up at Isabelle in the Zelig's kitchen, and he figured that she was just biding her time until she could broach the subject once more, but he wasn't about to change his mind so easily on it, either. If he couldn't hold onto a glass, how in the world would he ever manage to hold onto a squirming baby?

 

It was crazy, wasn't it? He'd always just coped with his shortcomings. He'd done it for so long that it had become second nature. He deserved the scars, didn't he? The things he'd done . . . those who had died long before they ever should have . . . the scars he bore were a small price to pay when the others had lost so much more . . .

 

At least, that was what he'd always thought . . .

 

“So this is where you disappeared to. Mind if I visit with you for awhile?”

 

Letting his hand drop, Griffin blinked and looked up as Kichiro Izayoi stepped off the stairs. “I, uh, didn't mean to disappear. I just . . . umm . . .”

 

Kichiro chuckled as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded. “They've moved on to `girl talk'—wedding planning—so I figured I'd make myself scarce.”

 

“The . . . wedding,” Griffin echoed. Isabelle had insisted that she wanted to do it as soon as possible, and while Griffin was inclined to agree, he had to wonder if he shouldn't have insisted that they just go to the courthouse or something since the plans that she'd rattled on about to him had sounded more like battle coordination than an actual wedding. “She was worried about the timing,” he ventured. “Figured that since everyone would be here, she'd talk to Sesshoumaru about the progress with the research, too.”

 

“She said as much,” Kichiro replied.

 

Griffin shrugged. “You, uh . . . you think it's safe to test on a few more people, then?”

 

“Sure . . . Gunnar's bloodwork looks good now. Baby Belle's fine-tuned the dosage chart, or so it would seem. All indications are that widening the test pool is the next logical step.”

 

Griffin grunted since it sounded much simpler than he knew it to be. “Finding more people to test it on is the problem,” he reminded Kichiro.

 

“Yeah, but I'm sure that we can come up with a workable list of those who might be interested and willing to help out. Given that Gunnar's had positive results, I'm sure that finding willing subjects won't be too difficult.”

 

“Good,” Griffin muttered, letting his gaze fall away as he slowly flexed his sore hand.

 

Kichiro cleared his throat. “Hey, um . . . why don't you let me take a look at that?” he asked carefully, nodding his head once in the direction of Griffin's hand.

 

Griffin's automatic reaction was to say, `no', but he hesitated for a moment. Something about the concern that was evident in Kichiro's eyes stopped him, and while he wasn't entirely keen on the idea, he was also more than a little reluctant to refuse on principle. “It's fine,” he muttered instead, curling his fingers into a tight fist that he tried to hide between his spread knees.

 

Kichiro eyed him but didn't respond right away. Crossing the humble floor, he sank down on the sofa beside Griffin, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers together, pointing down at the threadbare rug under the furniture. “Isabelle told me that you were . . . concerned . . . about your lack of mobility,” he finally ventured quietly.

 

Griffin didn't answer, and he wasn't surprised that she'd talked to her father about it, either. The surprising thing was that for once, he wasn't angry over it, either.

 

“I'm not saying that surgery could fix you up entirely, but it may not hurt, either. I mean, I'd be better able to give you an accurate assessment if you'd allow me to check you over, and I can't promise anything, but . . . Well, it's an option.”

 

Griffin opened his mouth to tell Kichiro that he was fine, just fine, but was surprised at what actually came out. “I didn't protect her,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “When Gregory showed up, I . . .” Flinching at the unfettered memories that assailed him, he shook his head and forced himself to continue. “I failed.”

 

“That's not how I heard it,” Kichiro corrected, a touch of somber amusement in his tone. “Even Gunnar said that you fought well enough.”

 

Griffin's reply to that was a very loud, very pronounced snort.

 

“There's more to it than that, isn't there?”

 

This time, he sighed. “I . . . I can't remember the last time I was able to stay in bed for more than a couple hours,” he admitted, his features contorting in a show of blatant irritation. “It didn't used to bother me . . .”

 

“Pain?”

 

“Sometimes. Sometimes my leg just goes numb . . .”

 

Nodding slowly, Kichiro seemed to be considering what Griffin had said. “Sounds like a pinched or constricted nerve.”

 

Griffin's gaze settled on the scrap box beside the hearth with a scowl. It seemed to him that the pile of broken bits was steadily growing at a faster rate than it used to. “She . . . she wants . . . cubs,” he muttered without taking his eyes off the box.

 

“She does,” Kichiro agreed in a mild tone. “Always has.”

 

“Cubs are . . . breakable.”

 

Kichiro's chuckle was warm, reassuring, and Griffin blinked when the doctor's hand gripped his shoulder. “Not nearly as breakable as you'd think. Why don't you let me look at your hand now?”

 

He never would be entirely certain why he slowly held out his hand then. It might have had something to do with the concern that was quite evident on Kichiro's face, or it may have been the inner realization that Griffin was being too stubborn for no good reason: that as much as he might like to think that he deserved the scarring he'd acquired, that the truth of it was that Isabelle didn't, that maybe—just maybe—her needs, her dreams, her desires . . . Those things were far more important to him than those things that he thought he deserved.

 

Kichiro was gentle as he poked and prodded Griffin's hand, taking note of the slightest change in expression as he thoroughly examined the limb. After what felt like hours but was probably only a matter of minutes, Kichiro sat back and smiled. “I'd like to run some tests—diagnostics, really—to get a better idea of what's going on, but I didn't feel any structural damage in your hand, at least, which would imply that the bulk of your problem is likely the built-up scar tissue.”

 

When Griffin didn't reply right away, Kichiro sighed but smiled, watching as Griffin rubbed his hand in a completely thoughtful sort of way.

 

“There's no rush, of course,” he went on kindly. “Why don't you, um, let me make some arrangements with the clinic so I can get a more accurate assessment, and we can see what we can do from there? Just because you do this doesn't mean that you have to do anything right away.”

 

“Y . . . yeah,” Griffin muttered. “Yeah . . .”

 

“I imagine that a lot of your scarring could probably be repaired with skin grafts,” Kichiro went on smoothly.

 

“You mean . . . you mean when they take skin off your body and . . . and move it?”

 

With a nod, Kichiro smiled just a little. “Something like that. It's just something to think about.”

 

“No.”

 

Both men turned in time to watch Isabelle step off the stairs, and while she was smiling just a little, Griffin could sense the agitation in her youki. It was clear to him, yes, but the problem was that he wasn't sure why . . . “Isabelle . . .?” Griffin forced himself to ask.

 

She didn't speak as she crossed the floor and sat on the arm of the sofa beside Griffin.

 

“Something bothering you, Baby Belle?” Kichiro asked in a rather droll tone.

 

She shrugged offhandedly though the irritation surrounding her didn't wane. “If you want to repair the damage that hinders Griffin's mobility, that's fine,” she said in a quiet, steady voice. “But these scars on his face . . . they're mine. Leave them alone. You can't touch them.”

 

Griffin's head snapped to the side. He couldn't help himself. Staring at her through disbelieving eyes, he could only shake his head slightly when she deliberately turned his face and kissed his flawed cheek. When she pulled back far enough to smile at him, though, he didn't miss the wash of tears that lent her gaze an ethereal glow, and her smile widened when he blushed just a little. “They're sexy, don't you think?”

 

Kichiro laughed and pushed himself to his feet. “You win, daughter of mine, though I hesitate to comment on your mate's perceived sex appeal.”

 

She laughed, too, slipping off the arm of the sofa and into Griffin's lap as the sounds of Kichiro's retreating footsteps sounded in their ears. “I wouldn't change a thing about you, you know,” she murmured, cuddling against his shoulder with a completely contented sigh.

 

“W . . . wouldn't you?” he asked, almost smiling, burying his nose deep in her hair.

 

“I love you,” she went on, her tone as light as her breathing, and while her words caught him off guard, they didn't surprise him, either. “Everything about you . . . since the moment I first saw you, but I've never wanted to fix you. You were never broken.”

 

A sudden, choking thickness squeezed his throat, and he had to blink rapidly to stave back the emotion that she'd inspired in him. “Isabelle, I . . .”

 

“I know,” she said when his voice faltered. “I know.”

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought from Kichiro:

Surgery, eh …?

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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~