InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Cleanliness ( Chapter 41 )

~~Chapter 41~~

~Cleanliness~

 

-=0=-

 

 

`I'm damned. Damned. Damned and . . . and stupid . . .'

 

The sound of sloshing water mingled with the soft giggles as the little demon splashed in the makeshift tub—a trash can that he'd cleaned out for the endeavor.

 

To be honest, Kurt had felt rather stupid as he washed it out, as he'd sprayed the inside with industrial disinfectant so that it was all right to use. He'd also felt a little bad since he wasn't happy with the idea of sticking her in a garbage can, but considering he didn't really have any other options short of installing a bathtub, and that would only serve to raise suspicions . . .

 

Really, though, it hadn't been all that difficult. He picked up a water spout converter like the kind one used to affix a portable dishwasher to a sink and hooked up a few lengths of hose to fill the can with hot water from the bathroom.

 

In all actuality, he'd felt much more freakish in the store as he'd painstakingly sniffed bottle after bottle of body wash and lotions and shampoos. At first, he'd grabbed a bar of the cheapest soap since that's what he tended to buy for himself, but he'd stopped to watch as two young girls had headed down the aisle toward the body wash, giggling as they compared scents.

 

It was then that he vaguely remembered the different bottles his mother had kept in the shower when he was smaller. She'd always smelled like summer flowers, hadn't she? If his mother had liked scents like that, then it stood to reason that the little demon might like them, too . . . right?

 

He wasn't even sure why he'd wanted to do any such thing for her; not really. He wasn't sure about anything anymore . . .

 

He sighed. With every passing day, he felt that he was getting closer to . . . something—something he couldn't quite understand, couldn't quite grasp—something that frightened him as much as it exhilarated him, too . . . but . . .

 

What the hell was he doing? Playing house with the demon? Had he lost his mind?

 

He grimaced as he spared a peek at her only to find her peering over the top of the can. He could only see her eyes, her soapy hair, complete with the old smock folded and laying atop her head. Not that it mattered, because it didn't. He knew damn well what she looked like inside that damn can, didn't he? He'd seen her a few too many times not to know . . .

 

And when his thoughts had shifted from the idea that she was just a monster hidden inside a pretty form to the knowledge that she was actually female, that maybe she wasn't quite as different as he'd wanted to believe . . .

 

No doubt about it, he was a damned man, wasn't he?

 

“Um . . . taijya . . .”

 

No doubt about it; definitely damned . . . “What?”

 

“I don't suppose you'd wash my back . . .?”

 

`And there's the proof,' he thought with an inward snort. “No,” he stated, distrusting himself to elaborate as to the why of his refusal. `Shit . . . I'm no better than that fucking Peterson, am I?'

 

A loud gurgle of water, and he supposed that she sat up a little. “Please?”

 

He sighed again. He was doing that a lot this evening, wasn't he? “No.”

 

“But I can't reach it,” she pointed out.

 

Kurt almost snorted out loud as he gritted his teeth together and glowered at his hands. “No,” he stated once more.

 

No doubt about it; he was a pervert. He had to be one, didn't he, if he actually was attracted to that little demon, but there was no way—no way—he was going to wash her back for her. That'd be a fate worse than death, wouldn't it, because . . .

 

Grimacing when she uttered a plaintive little sound, Kurt wasn't entirely sure why he stood up and moved toward her. At least all of her scrubbing had created a layer of bubbles on the surface of the water, obstructing his view of her underneath. Telling himself over and over that this was a really bad idea, he took the half-empty bottle of body wash and squeezed some into the palm of his hand. He hadn't thought to bring her a washcloth, and that just figured. He hesitated before touching the shining skin of her back, swallowing hard.

 

It was worse than he'd imagined—much softer, much smoother, much warmer, and as he started to rub the soap around, she leaned toward him. “This is so nice,” she breathed.

 

`Speak for yourself,' he thought with an inward snort.

 

“I can't believe you brought me a bath!” she went on, either not noticing his reluctance or not bothering to remark upon it. He figured it was the first of those. “Do you make baths for your ten girlfriends, too?”

 

“Uh . . . yes, all the time,” he deadpanned. Anything to get his mind off what he was doing . . . It wouldn't have been so bad if she didn't keep sitting there, moaning quietly, as though the absolute pleasure of having a bath weren't the closest thing to heaven on earth. Then again, who the hell was he trying to fool? Of course it was bad, any way you looked at it. It was bad. Touching her like that only served to remind him of exactly how tiny she really was; how delicate—how perfect she felt to him. It was as disconcerting as it was welcome, and the overall sensation was almost more than he could stand.

 

`Knock it off, damn it!' he told himself furiously. It made no sense to him, did it? Or maybe it did. He'd spent more time with her than he ever had with another person, he supposed. Even when he'd lived with Old Granger, it hadn't been the same. Old Granger was too weird, too unsettled to be a real companion, and somewhere along the way, Kurt had forgotten what it meant to actually let someone near. Something about the little demon . . .

 

She was familiar.

 

“I feel so clean,” she murmured, bringing her arms up, crossing them on the edge of the trashcan as she rested her cheek on her forearms, her eyes closed. “I can't remember the last time I felt so clean . . .”

 

He sighed and frowned, deliberately slowing down the motion of his hands as he washed her back. She shivered, tiny goosebumps surfacing under his fingertips, only to be smoothed away as he ran his hands over her. The soap lent a slight barrier against the feel of pure skin, but didn't provide nearly enough of one, and Kurt shifted, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning, himself . . .

 

“So warm,” she said after a moment.

 

`Damned . . .'

 

She sat up a little straighter suddenly, as though she'd just had a thought or something. “Oh . . . Th-thank you,” she blurted suddenly. “I think I'll, uh . . . just soak a while . . .”

 

He blinked and sat back, letting his hands dangle into the water and concentrating on drawing deep, fortifying breaths for a minute, willing his body to forget what he'd just been doing. It didn't work so well. “You need to get out of there soon or you're going to look like a prune,” he muttered as he pushed himself to his feet and turned away.

 

She sighed softly. “Just little longer?” she pressed.

 

Kurt grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was to sit there while she finished her bath, but . . . “All right,” he agreed at last.

 

She giggled and settled in for a longer soak.

 

Kurt heaved another sigh and strode over to the desk, snatching up the newspaper and determined to ignore her, even if it killed him, and it just might, all things considered . . . Little demons and bath water . . . What a horrid combination . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Bas slipped into the darkened bedroom, and smiled a little wanly as the welcome touch of Sydnie's youki brushed over him. God, he'd missed her. In the weeks since Samantha's disappearance, the one thing that he could complain about, really, was the constant presence of his mate that had been sorely missing during his time spent in Chicago, and while he was going to be heading back out soon, he'd come home for a couple days to make sure that Sydnie was all right, and because he simply wanted to be near her; to reassure himself that she was safe and that their unborn child was doing well.

 

Careful not to wake her, he didn't bother to undress before he stretched out beside her. Without waking up, she scooted closer, cuddling against him as Bas slipped his arms around her and pulled her onto his chest—her preferred place to sleep. Her stomach was bulging just a little, attesting to the life she nurtured inside her, and he gently rubbed her belly, marveling at the very idea that their child really was on the way. The beat of her heart comforted him, and he smiled sadly, wondering if it was horrible of him to feel so completely content, even if it were only for an insular moment.

 

“Mm, puppy,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleepiness. “Missed you . . .”

 

“I missed you, too, kitty.”

 

She yawned and pushed herself up far enough to look down at him, her gaze taking a moment to focus. “Did you find her?” she demanded breathlessly.

 

He shook his head. “No.”

 

“Then why are you—?”

 

“I'm just home for a couple days,” he assured her. “I'm going back soon enough.”

 

She looked like she wanted to argue with him despite the grudging sense of gladness that he really was there. He supposed he could understand that well enough. She missed him as much if not more than he missed her, didn't she? As much as she wanted him home, though, she also wanted him to be out there, looking for Samantha, and he could understand that, too.

 

“How are you feeling, baby?” he asked gently, still rubbing her slightly distended belly.

 

She stared at him for a long moment then cuddled against his shoulder. “I'm fine,” she assured him though she said it with a slightly pouty tone. “Isabelle says that this one is just fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

She sighed. “Your father's had a lot of calls, but nothing solid as yet.”

 

“I know,” he replied. “So has Kich . . . along with a few prank calls from little bastards who think it's funny to make light of the idea that someone is missing like that.”

 

“Your father's gotten a few of those, too,” she mused.

 

Bas sighed. Thinking about those idiot calls was more than enough to upset the delicate balance of his emotions, and with that in mind, he figured he'd better change the direction of his thoughts quickly, before he ended up completely and thoroughly pissed off all over again. “You want some milk, kitty?”

 

“I'm all right,” she murmured.

 

“Let me go get you some,” he said. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure that she'd allowed anyone else to get the drink for her in his absence, and since he was home, he intended to make sure that she drank as much as she needed.

 

“Hmm,” she intoned but didn't try to stop him as he gently moved her aside and got up.

 

“I'll be right back,” he promised.

 

The mansion was silent as he headed down the stairs and toward the kitchen. The clock on the mantle in the living room struck twice, and he sighed. He was home, yes, but it didn't feel like home, did it? There was an invisible sort of feeling that just wouldn't go away; this pervasive cloud of foreboding that even he could sense. Everyone in the house was waiting, wondering, worrying, and he supposed that had as much to do with it as anything else could.

 

Stepping into the darkened kitchen, he stopped short and shook his head at the sight that greeted him. Sitting at the breakfast nook and silhouetted in shadows upon shadows in the semi-darkness, staring out the window . . .

 

“Hey, Belle,” he said quietly so that he didn't startle her. She ought to have known that he was there, and she likely did . . . or she was so deep in thought that she hadn't noticed him, at all.

 

“Bastian,” she greeted wanly as he sat down across from her. “I heard you come in . . .”

 

“How are you holding up?” he asked as he stared at her: shades of blues and grays and shadows in the dark. Her marbleized skin glowing with a certain incandescence, her hair tinged by the frosty hands of the frigid light filtering through the corner of windows . . . even her eyes, fathomless, deep, and a melancholy so poignant, so bittersweet that he had to swallow hard and look away.

 

“I'm fine,” she whispered in an ironic tone. “I'm always fine. It's my daughter that I don't know about . . .”

 

“But you can feel her, right? You know that she's . . . that she's okay.”

 

“Do I?” Bellaniece challenged suddenly, her gaze flicking over him: startlingly direct. “Do I really know that or . . .” Trailing off as she swallowed hard, her stare faltering just for a moment before she leveled it at him once more. “Do I?” she whispered again, as though the sound of her own voice could hurt her. Her eyes dropped to the table, her head slumping forward. Hair falling over her like a veil, she sighed, her hand trembling as she reached for the white porcelain mug in front of her. “Do I know it, or is it just what I want to think?”

 

“I think you know,” Bas replied. “I'd like to think that you do.”

 

She didn't respond right away. The tick of the wall clock was obscenely loud. “Next week,” she finally said. “Next week, she'll be human again . . . and it . . . terrifies me . . .”

 

Bas nodded. He understood that well enough. He remembered the times when he became human. It was long enough ago that it wasn't something that he considered often, but he remembered. There was a certain level of helplessness that had come along with the change, a distinct disadvantage of every one of his senses seeming to shut down all at once. Hard enough to be at home during those nights, and even surrounded by family, he'd always felt a little isolated. How difficult was it for Samantha, wherever she was?

 

Bellaniece sighed and sat back, her gaze shifting to the window again. “I've sat in this spot every night for the last eighty-five nights, staring out this window, watching the ocean as it never, ever really changes . . . Eighty-five nights out of the eighty-eight since anyone last heard from my daughter . . . and with every day that passes, I feel my family falling apart little by little by little . . . and I have to wonder how much more we can take before we all just crumble to dust?”

 

Bas let out a deep breath and slowly nodded. He'd wondered the same thing, himself, and while he hadn't been here to witness the strain, he knew well enough what the constant searching was doing to the others—especially to Kichiro . . . “Samantha's one of the smartest people I know,” he said with a half-smile. “Guess she gets that from you . . . Anyway, wherever she is, she's fine, and . . . and I know that she's just as worried about you and Kich as you are about her.”

 

Bellaniece sighed and shook her head as she tucked a long strand of bronze hair behind her ear, but she finally smiled just a little. “Thank you, Bastian,” she said as she reached over to squeeze his hand.

 

He nodded, relieved to see the smile on her face even if it wasn't a full one. It had always seemed to him it was second nature to her. Seeing her so sad just seemed completely unnatural, didn't it? “We'll bring her home,” he promised.

 

Her smile widened—a genuine smile even if it wasn't as brilliant as her usual expression. “I know you will.”

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

`This is . . . so nice . . .'

 

Samantha smiled as she pulled the collar of the oversized, nondescript, faded black sweatshirt up over her nose and breathed deep. It smelled like him: the taijya—at least, it smelled like him before he'd taken the scent-tab. Of course, it baffled her that he had obviously taken more than one, and why he'd want to do that was completely beyond her, but he'd only shrugged and pretended not to have heard her the one time she'd asked him about it, and she figured that he had his reasons, after all.

 

After he finished dumping three buckets of warm water over her head to rinse her, he'd tossed a towel at her and set out a pair of sweatpants and the shirt she was wearing now—his clothes. The warmth of the clothes was a beautiful feeling, and she'd been unable to stop herself from breathing in the clean scent of them as she quietly and happily ate the cheeseburger he'd brought her.

 

But the absolute best thing, as far as she was concerned, was the marked change in his scent as he'd scrubbed her back. She'd almost missed it. As euphoric as she had been by the idea of a simple bath, even if it was in a scrubbed out trash can, she'd been completely sidetracked when she'd first started to realize that his hands were shaking, that his scent had changed . . . that marked change—slightly darker, deeper, more unsettling—the subtle difference that she'd never actually smelled from someone who was paying attention to her . . .

 

He . . . he wanted her . . .?

 

It was a novel idea, wasn't it? The knowledge was heady, leaving her feeling a little giddy, and even if it was impossible, given the situation, did it really hurt to think about it, at least for now?

 

`Of course he wants you,' her youkai voice pointed out reasonably. `Still, that doesn't mean that he understands any of it, either, you know.'

 

She did know. She could see it in his eyes sometimes, couldn't she? His feelings confused him, unsettled him . . . the emotion that she saw when he thought she wasn't looking made her wonder if she weren't doing something ultimately stupid, not because of her feelings, no, but because of the conflict that she knew it caused deep inside him.

 

It was enough for her, though, wasn't it? Just to be close enough, to know that he would be there at night; that she didn't have to be completely alone . . . But then, how selfish was that, really? With every day that passed, she could feel it, couldn't she? The bond that comforted her was tearing him up inside, wasn't it? And yet she couldn't distance herself from him, either. The very idea of trying to do that was just a little more than she could stand. She wasn't a saint, and she wasn't a martyr, and the taijya . . .

 

He'd come to mean the world to her . . .

 

“You're plotting something. I can see it in your eyes.”

 

Blinking as she pushed away the lingering gloom of her thoughts, she shook her head and shrugged. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she countered lightly.

 

“Like hell,” he retorted. “Let me guess: you're plotting to off me while I sleep.”

 

“Of course not,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “You're the only one who brings me decent food. Why on earth would I do that?”

 

“Such a pain,” he muttered as he tugged the comics out of the paper and dropped them on the table in front of her. “Anyway, don't drool on that page. I haven't gotten to read it yet.”

 

“I don't drool,” she snorted, glancing at the dateline: January 28, it said . . . “Wow . . . it's almost February,” she murmured softly, deliberately blocking any thought as to exactly how long she'd already been here from her mind. “So what are you going to do for me for Valentine's Day?” she quipped.

 

He rolled his eyes, sparing a moment to peer around the edge of the newspaper. “That's just another one of those commercialized holidays designed to make losers who don't have a chance in hell of finding a date feel even more loser-ish than they already do. By the way, did you know that statistically speaking, Valentine's Day ranks right up there in the suicide ratings?”

 

“You are such a fatalist,” she pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

 

“I consider myself to be a pragmatist,” he corrected.

 

She laughed softly then sighed, setting the paper aside as she sat back, drawing her knees up as she savored the feeling of the soft fabric against her skin. “Have you ever had a real girlfriend?” she asked at length.

 

He seemed surprised by her question, and he shook the newspaper and cleared his throat before answering. “Uh, no, I don't suppose I have.”

 

“Why?”

 

He shook his head, letting the newspaper crumple onto his lap, his gaze narrowing as he frowned at the far wall. “I don't know. I just never . . . never felt anything for anyone; not like that. I mean . . . there have been women, but no names; no faces . . . Nothing that could . . .”

 

He trailed off without finishing that thought, but then, he didn't really have to, did he? `Nothing that could hurt him . . .' So why did that thought make her happy on some level? Why did it please her to think that way? The very idea that she'd feel that sort of thing about the fact that he'd never felt that kind of love . . . It horrified her. That she could possibly be so base, so shallow . . . And maybe she really was the monster that he'd thought she was, from the start.

 

“What about you?” he asked suddenly, his voice much closer to the tone she knew.

 

She blinked and shrugged, but couldn't meet his gaze. `Am I really so awful . . .?'

 

“Little demon?”

 

Shaking herself out of her own malicious thoughts, Samantha couldn't help the slight blush that dusted her skin even as she reminded herself that fair was fair, after all. “N-no . . .”

 

“No, what? No boyfriends?”

 

She tried to keep herself from turning completely red in the face; she really did. Years of hearing her sisters telling her that she ought to get out, to date someone, even if she knew he wasn't her true mate . . . “Just to get some experience in dating,” they'd said . . . Samantha had always turned red and run away, trying not to think about it.

 

“No,” she muttered, her eyebrows drawing together in a marked frown as her eyes fell to the table. “My sisters always thought I should, but I . . .” Waving her hands as though to dismiss the entire thing from her mind, she sighed and grimaced as her ears flattened momentarily. “It always seemed so pointless,” she explained. “I mean . . . boys my age were so stupid, always talking about this girl or that one . . . girls who knew how to flirt and would sleep with anyone who gave them the time of day, so I . . . I just never . . . never really wanted to . . .”

 

She laughed suddenly, shaking her head as she forced herself to shrug as though it didn't matter to her at all. “Anyway, I suppose that sounds stupid, doesn't it? Really stupid and really lame . . .”

 

“No, it doesn't,” he replied, a strange sort of emotion flickering over his features for only a moment before he managed to mask it.

 

“You want to laugh at me,” she pointed out, wrinkling her nose.

 

“No . . . no I don't,” he assured her. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he must have changed his mind, because he shook his head and smoothed out the newspaper instead.

 

She blinked as his voice, as clearly as if he'd spoken out loud, whispered in her head. `In another lifetime . . .'

 

`. . . We really could have been together . . .' she finished in her own head.

 

She smiled a little sadly and nodded. She understood completely. It was something she'd thought to herself more than once in the last few weeks, during those long days of testing, those thoughts that she couldn't understand, not at all. She knew what they meant for her, of course. The innate knowledge that would ultimately mean that her life really was over—already was over—had been over from the moment she'd met him, that second she'd felt the stirrings deep down that he was familiar to her; more familiar than he should have been . . . because there wasn't a world that could accept them as they were; not together. His world was too dark, too set, and hers . . .

 

It was too full of his brand of monsters.

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought from Samantha:

It … really is hopeless …

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Vendetta): 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~