InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Completion ( Chapter 69 )

~~Chapter 69~~

~Completion~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Kurt sighed and gritted his teeth, unable to make sense of anything as he stared at the copy of the sketches that Cain had given to him. He'd asked for the copies, unsure whether or not Cain would permit it, and even at the start, the youkai had seemed reluctant to do it. In the end, though, he had copied them, likely figuring that Kurt might still need the extra encouragement. He didn't, but . . .

 

But he also wanted to etch those images into his head; to always keep in mind that his choice—as if there really had been a choice, in the end—was the only one he could make.

 

It didn't matter whether he believed Cain's words or not, either. He wasn't willing to take that great a risk; not with her.

 

Damned if it seemed right, though. No, it seemed too easy, didn't it? He was being handed every single thing that he'd ever wanted, wasn't he? And he'd earned none of it. She deserved a man who protected her from the things that she'd been subjected to; one that fought to keep her safe instead of tossing her away, handing her over to those bastards to do what they would to her. That's what he'd done, contemptible asshole that he was, and while he'd tried to understand why she'd be so ready to forgive him without as much as a second thought, he never had understood before, but now . . . Samantha . . .

 

So why was it so simple? Well, not simple, exactly, but it was, wasn't it? The difficult part had been admitting what he'd known for a long, long time out loud. Samantha might well deserve better—he'd be the first to admit that, but . . .

 

But there was irrefutable truth in what Cain said, too. Maybe it wasn't about him, and maybe it had ceased to be about him the moment he'd clapped eyes on her . . .

 

He sighed and sat back. In the distance, he could hear muffled sounds, though nothing that he could truly discern. He could see the somber hues of falling night outside the windows and frowned as he gathered the copies together to tuck them away in the drawer of the nightstand. They'd be in soon to secure him for the duration and to remove the dinner tray . . . Tonight had been a fabulous roast beef and roasted vegetables—a far cry from the dog kibble and tainted water they'd always, always given her . . .

 

The door opened, and Kagome and InuYasha stepped inside. That was something else he didn't understand. Kagome had told him that he was most certainly the reincarnation of someone they'd known—someone they'd called `Miroku'—a Buddhist monk they'd apparently traveled with almost six hundred years ago all over Japan. He'd possessed a cursed hole in his right hand that had the ability to suck in everything in the vicinity. The curse had been inflicted upon Miroku's grandfather and then passed down, father to son, with the understanding that eventually that hole would suck in the monk, too, unless they managed to defeat and kill the demon that had cursed his grandfather, to start with.

 

But they had, according to Kagome. They'd found him, and they'd destroyed him, and in the doing, they'd saved their friend's life.

 

Still, Kurt wasn't sure what to make of that. To believe that he had been reincarnated . . . well, that was a pretty long shot, really . . .

 

InuYasha had snorted loudly, though—just before asking him if he still grabbed asses and asked hapless women to bear his children . . .

 

“You didn't eat much, Kurt,” Kagome commented, a gentle chiding evident in her tone.

 

“Keh! Leave him be,” InuYasha grouched.

 

“It's not healthy to skip meals, dog-boy,” she pointed out calmly, reasonably—a sure sign that she was getting irritated with the man she called her mate.

 

“It ain't healthy to badger anyone, either,” he shot back.

 

“It was fine. I just wasn't very hungry,” Kurt said in an effort to stave off the squabbling.

 

“Whatever,” InuYasha muttered. “You know the drill, right?”

 

“That's entirely unnecessary,” Kagome remarked as she watched InuYasha make quick work of securing Kurt's hands behind his back. “It's not like he's going to try to run away, and you know it,” she said.

 

InuYasha shot her a look then shrugged. “Not my call, wench,” he replied.

 

“It's fine,” Kurt insisted quietly.

 

Kagome sighed and shot Kurt a quelling sort of look. “You're comfortable enough?”

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kurt realized exactly how messed up it really was, that Kagome was so concerned about his well-being. Who had worried about the little demon during those days, especially the earliest ones? He certainly hadn't, had he? Or maybe . . . maybe those feelings of concern when he'd thought that it was simply because of his investment . . . was it? Was it, really? Or had he known somewhere deep down that she meant more to him, even then . . .?

 

The door opened once more, and Kurt blinked, his stomach turning over in a decidedly pleasant sort of way when Samantha poked her head into the room with Stinky-butt in her arms. The girl had obviously been crying, her little nose all reddened, her eyes rimmed in pink as she sniffled and drew a shaky breath, and Kurt couldn't help the grimace that surfaced on his features when she whimpered and wiggled to gain her freedom.

 

“Grandpa said that it was all right to leave his hands free for the night,” Samantha said.

 

InuYasha snorted and shook his head but unfastened Kurt's hands. “Tell him to make up my damn mind,” he grumbled.

 

Samantha smiled though it seemed to Kurt that it was a little strained, and she kissed her other grandparents on the cheeks before setting Stinky-butt on her feet and laughing softly when the girl made a mad dash for Kurt.

 

He caught her and swung her off the floor, settling her against his shoulder as she began her ritualistic plundering of his pockets in search of the candy that she thought he might have. “I don't have any,” he told her with a wince as she climbed up his shoulder and onto his head. He sighed.

 

Samantha clapped her hands over her mouth as a giggle slipped from her. “She wanted to come up here. She kept trying to sneak, so Grandpa told me that I might as well bring her,” she explained in an almost apologetic sort of way.

 

Kurt nodded but didn't speak. It occurred to him that she had to have known exactly what the whole `mates' thing meant. Of course she did. He wasn't stupid enough to believe otherwise, either. Still, she hadn't told him, had she? Hadn't bothered to explain a damn thing—things that would have made a world of difference in his mind . . . What had she meant to do? Leave him in the dark forever? To what end . . .?

 

“Evan said that you have pretty good reflexes,” she went on in a falsely bright tone of voice. “He said you ripped his favorite tour shirt.”

 

“Samantha . . .”

 

“I met the Conors today,” she hurried on, as though she didn't want to hear whatever Kurt was going to say. Rubbing her upper arms almost nervously, her ears twitched her anxiety showing in the slight tightness around her eyes as she quickly paced the floor. “They seem really nice, and they thought that she was just adorable—of course she is, isn't she? And they brought jelly beans for her, so she liked them . . .”

 

Kurt frowned for entirely different reasons that time. True, he hadn't gotten a chance to even clap eyes on the couple who hoped to adopt the child, but he didn't like them, never mind that he knew that his general disdain was completely unfounded and entirely ridiculous . . . Tugging the girl off his head, he smiled just a little as she pouted at him, sticking out her bottom lip and staring at him in an accusing sort of way, as if to ask him why he didn't have candy for her. “Sorry, Stinky-butt,” Kurt muttered.

 

The girl whimpered in protest.

 

Samantha sighed but smiled. “You're good with her.”

 

Kurt shot her a quick glance but didn't respond. He wasn't sure if he trusted himself to do it; not when he knew damn well that she'd purposefully kept the truth from him. Whatever her reasons, did it matter when he hadn't understood the vastness of it all? It ticked him off that she could be so blasé about the entire thing when she knew—knew—what it all meant. He hadn't. He wasn't supposed to, but she . . . she should have known that he cared about her far too much to let anything happen to her. He'd spent so much time trying to do things to protect her, and then . . .

 

“Do you want to meet them? I mean, I'm sure that Grandpa would be okay with that,” she ventured.

 

“Samantha, we need to talk,” Kurt said abruptly.

 

Samantha bit her lip and shot him a nervous sort of glance. “Talk?” she repeated hesitantly. Then she sighed. “Okay.”

 

He scowled at her reluctance, depositing the child on his bed before stalking over to the nearest window. “Why didn't you tell me?” he demanded quietly. “Why didn't you tell me . . . everything?”

 

“Everything . . .?”

 

“Don't play dumb, Sam,” he growled without turning around to face her. “You didn't tell me . . . that you . . .”

 

“Taijya . . .” she began in a completely placating tone of voice. “I . . . I don't know what you're—”

 

“I know,” he cut in almost coldly. “Mates . . . dying . . . all of it. What I want to know is why you didn't tell me.”

 

She stopped moving, her entire body stiffening. “Why does it matter?” she countered quietly.

 

He scowled out the window in abject disbelief, unable to reconcile himself with what she'd just asked in light of the situation. He didn't trust himself to look at her, not yet. He was still too angry, and that anger just kept spiraling higher with her incomplete answers. “What do you mean? Of course, it matters!” he growled. “You'd think it wouldn't matter to me? Are you nuts?”

 

She took a step back, as though his outrage had the power to hurt her. “Who . . . who told you?” she asked instead.

 

“Does it matter?” he tossed back carelessly, glancing over his shoulder at her despite his resolve not to do any such thing.

 

Rubbing her forehead, she couldn't hide the way her ears flattened just as little. “You weren't supposed to hear all that,” she admitted almost sadly. “I . . . I'm sorry . . .”

 

“Is it true?” he demanded, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the tell-tale sign of her upset.

 

“Which part?”

 

Narrowing his gaze, he shook his head and turned his attention back out the window once more. “All of it.”

 

She let out a deep breath and sank onto the edge of the bed, her shoulder slouching in defeat. “Probably,” she said.

 

He whirled around to glower at her. “That's all you have to say? `Probably'? Zelig said that—that you'd die if I really am your—your mate, and you weren't with me! Is that true?”

 

The child whined and crawled into Samantha's lap, nudging her face against Samantha's neck, as though she needed the reassurance.

 

“You weren't supposed to know that,” she whispered with a sad little shake of her head.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don't want you to stay with me out of pity,” she said quietly, simply, as though it made all the sense in the world. “I don't want that . . .”

 

“Pity?” he echoed as his irritation surged hotter. “You're the last person I'd ever pity! Damn it, Samantha! Don't you understand? You're better off without me! You always have been!”

 

She finally lifted her gaze from the child, a belligerence in her features that he couldn't credit. “Why?” she demanded softly.

 

“Why do you think?” he shot back. Drawing a deep breath in a vain effort to assuage his rioting emotions, he rubbed his face and shook his head. “I just want what's best for you,” he said.

 

She laughed suddenly—a thin, brittle sound. “I'm so tired,” she said softly, her voice full of understated vehemence, “of everyone deciding what's best for me without bothering to ask me what I want—of everyone telling me that I don't know what I want; that I'm confused and all that . . . I'm not stupid, Kurt. I know who you are, and I know what you've done, and . . . and I don't care.”

 

“You know what I've done,” he repeated cryptically, unable to stop himself from shaking his head in complete and utter disbelief.

 

“Yes.” She nodded, her gaze burning into his with a strength of conviction that he simply could not understand.

 

“You don't,” he replied slowly, thoughtfully. “I went back. I put those bastards into cages, and I made damn sure that they understood exactly what they did to you—the total humiliation, the degradation that you never, ever deserved . . . I made sure that they understood beyond a shadow of a doubt that what they'd done to you was unacceptable.”

 

Even in the fading, washed-out light, he could see her face pale as his words sank in. “W-why?” she whispered.

 

“Because,” he said simply, flatly. “Because I wanted to.”

 

“Taijya . . .”

 

“No,” he insisted with a stubborn shake of his head. “I won't have you worrying, every time you walk down the street . . . looking over your shoulder to make sure that they're not coming after you. If I didn't do what I did, you'd never have that because they wouldn't have stopped, and maybe they wouldn't have found you, but they'd have just captured another little demon . . . or bred their own . . .” he said, nodding at the child nestled in her lap, his meaning crystal clear. “Can't you understand that?”

 

She let out a deep breath and bit her lip. “I wasn't afraid,” she murmured softly.

 

“Samantha . . .”

 

She shook her head to cut him off. “I was never afraid as long as you were there,” she admitted. “Those white-coats . . . I pity them.”

 

He snorted and pushed away from the window to pace across the floor. “Of course you do,” he gritted out. He'd known that she'd feel that way, but it didn't help assuage his anger. They didn't deserve her pity, her tears, her worry. Those bastards . . . they deserved none of it. A sudden sense of absolute irony gripped him, and he slowly shook his head. “You . . . you want to hear the best part?” he asked suddenly, almost ruefully. The understated knowledge . . . the things that he had understood all along during those weeks as he'd caught and tormented the white-coats . . . He'd tried to ignore it, hadn't he? “I'm no better than they are. Maybe . . . maybe I'm worse.”

 

“Because you put me there,” she said softly.

 

He heaved a sigh, nodded, only to shake his head as a complete and utter feeling of hopelessness surged through him. “Yes . . . yes. That's why.”

 

“And if you knew me when you caught me like you know me now, then maybe I could understand that . . . but that isn't you. You were never like them.”

 

“You don't know that,” he countered in a hiss of desperation, a whisper of pleading.

 

She shrugged and handed the child a sucker that she'd had in the breast pocket of the plain white blouse she wore. “I do,” she stated.

 

“How?”

 

She bit her lip, shook her head, and her lips turned upward in the barest hint of a shy smile as she slowly met his gaze. “Because you wanted to know me. They never did.”

 

“That's not enough,” he countered with a stubborn snort. “That's not nearly enough. Those bastards . . . they deserve to die for what they did to you—and maybe I do, too.”

 

“That's not true,” she argued. “You didn't know, and after what you'd seen—”

 

He rounded on her, glowered at her. “Don't make excuses for me, Samantha. Don't try to make it okay.”

 

“But you can't live with anger and hatred,” she said quietly. “You . . . you just can't.”

 

Letting out a deep breath as his anger faded with her words, he shook his head, his brow furrowing in a grimace of irritation, an influx of confusion. “I . . . I don't know anything else,” he admitted quietly, almost brokenly. “Those . . . those things are all I've ever known . . .”

 

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes glowing as she gently set the child aside. The bed squeaked just a little as she got to her feet, as she shuffled toward him, and her touch was soothing as she turned his face toward her. “Then let me show you,” she coaxed with a faltering smile. “I want to show you what it's like to laugh again.”

 

“To . . . to laugh,” he repeated, as though the idea hadn't occurred to him. “Why . . .?”

 

“Because,” she replied like it was the simplest thing in the world, and maybe to her, it was. “Because if you laugh, then I will, too.”

 

“Little demon . . .”

 

“Please.”

 

He sighed, wondering how it could be that a woman as precious, as beautiful as Samantha, could deign to notice someone as broken and flawed as he was. How did she make it sound so simple? And why . . . why did he want so desperately to believe that it might be? “Samantha . . .”

 

Her smile widened just a little bit. “You came here to find me, didn't you?”

 

“N . . .” he began automatically. He'd lied to himself so many times that it had become second-nature, hadn't it? He trailed off when a fleeting memory assailed him—memories of those images—those sketches—the shadow of a life that had almost ended way too soon—flashed through his head. “I guess . . . I did . . .” he allowed.

 

Her lips trembled; her fingers shook as she stroked his cheeks, as a solitary tear spilled over to slip down her face in the waning daylight. “And I knew you would.”

 

Closing his eyes for a moment—just for a moment—he gathered his scattered senses, the last vestiges of his rational thought, and slowly opened his eyes again. “I don't deserve you,” he said slowly. “I never have, and I never will. You . . . you know that, right?”

 

A bitter wash of disappointment flickered behind her gaze, and he caught her wrists when she started to turn away, refusing to let her go; refusing to let her misunderstand. “I want you to understand that,” he insisted. “I want you to wake up every morning and know that I don't deserve to be anywhere near you . . .”

 

“And what will you think every morning when I'm thinking that awful thing?” she countered, her nostrils quivering as her outrage spiked.

 

It was then that Kurt finally smiled—a wan thing that was more of a grimace than a show of pleasure, but she seemed to understand it, too. “I'll be thinking . . . that maybe there is such a thing as grace.”

 

The old belligerence rose in her; he could see it in her expression. She opened her mouth to argue. He was faster, placing his index finger against her lips to silence her. “Just . . . just tell me one thing. Tell me why. Why in the hell would you ever have chosen me?”

 

“Why does anyone choose someone else?” she asked instead, her countenance registering her own slight confusion, as though she had no real answer to his question. “Maybe . . . maybe that first time I saw you, I realized that you were as lost and lonely as I was . . . misunderstood . . . doubted because of who or what you were . . . Maybe that's why . . . Does it matter so much?”

 

He let out a sigh and slowly shook his head, more because of the innate knowledge that he'd never, ever understand her than because he was trying to refute what she said. Still, he had just one last question, and everything—everything—depended upon her answer. “Samantha . . .”

 

“What?”

 

He bit his lip for a moment, his gaze narrowing as he tried to read her features. “Am I . . . your mate? Really? You're sure?”

 

“Do you want to be?” she countered.

 

“That's not what I asked,” he grumbled.

 

She shrugged, as though his answer didn't really matter, one way or another, though he could sense the rising turmoil that belied her cool façade. “It's what I need to know,” she replied.

 

He was having none of it, though, and he snorted indelicately as he dealt her one firm shake. “No games, Samantha. I need to know. Is what your grandfather said true? If I walked away from you, would you—?”

 

“And I won't answer that,” she cut in with a shake of her head. “Do you think I want you to stay because you feel sorry for me? For what might happen? If you stay, I want you to do it because it's what you want, baka!”

 

He blinked and stepped back, startled for a moment by the vehemence in her voice, in her very essence. “Baka?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

 

She snorted, a mulish sort of expression dawning on her face. “Nothing untrue, I assure you,” she replied tightly.

 

For some reason, that just didn't reassure him; not at all, but he let it go since that was hardly worth arguing over at the moment. “Don't you know?” he muttered, more to himself than to her as he let go of her and turned back toward the window once more. “I thought . . . I thought that you were better off without me. After all I've done . . .” He trailed off and shook his head, dragging his hands over his face. “It was never because I didn't want you.”

 

She gasped quietly as time seemed to stop, and for a dizzying moment, it really could have. Kurt grunted in surprise as a warm body barreled against his back, nearly throwing him off balance. With some difficulty, he turned around—Samantha was holding to him so tightly that he really had to work at it—he sighed. “You're a strange little demon,” he mused as she clung to him, her face buried against his chest as silent tears dampened his shirt. “Samantha . . .”

 

She sniffled loudly and leaned away, beaming a brilliant smile up at him despite the tears that streaked her face. “Do you . . . do you love me? Or do you think that you might someday?” she asked.

 

Kurt heaved a sigh and shook his head. “You . . . you think I don't?”

 

She hugged him tight and uttered a terse laugh. “I just want to hear you say it sometime . . . whenever you feel like it, that is.”

 

His smile this time was genuine, and while it wasn't very big, it was heartfelt. “I love you, Samantha,” he heard himself saying, and it registered somewhere in the back of his mind that it hadn't been nearly as difficult to say out loud as he'd thought it would be.

 

“Really?” she asked a little breathlessly, her blue eyes sparkling.

 

“Yes,” he replied.

 

She yelped out a happy little half-screech that made him grimace, and he was about to remark upon the idea that the noise really ought to hurt her ears far more than it hurt his, but he never got that far. Suddenly pulled down as her lips met his, he couldn't stifle the groan that slipped from him at the contact. Entirely too inviting, entirely too close, entirely too perfect . . . that's what she was. Her body seemed to melt against his as he slowly, hesitantly slipped his arms around her—the sweetest kiss, the gentlest promise neither spoken nor heard but felt somewhere deep down, and he realized for the first time in such a long while that he felt as though he were finally home.

 

“Tanny,” a little voice said, cutting through the moment.

 

Kurt heaved a sigh and opened his eyes though he didn't try to break the kiss, either. The child was standing beside them with a rather pouting expression on her face, staring up at them with her little arms crossed over her chest in an entirely disapproving sort of way.

 

“S-Samantha,” he muttered between her kisses.

 

“Hmm?”

 

He leaned back and slowly shifted his eyes to the side meaningfully.

 

She glanced down and smiled. “You want more `tanny'?” she asked.

 

The child nodded, her face brightening upon mention of the desired treat. “Tanny!”

 

Kurt heaved a sigh as Samantha laughed and dug into her pocket for another tiny sucker. “Here you go,” she said, offering it to the girl.

 

She took it with a peal of laughter and dashed back over to the bed to enjoy it.

 

Kurt watched her for a moment as Samantha snuggled against his chest again, tucking her head beneath his chin as she, too, watched the girl unwrap the candy.

 

“Samantha,” he said at length as he made a face at the obscenely loud crunch of the sucker in the child's jaws of doom.

 

“Yes?”

 

He leaned back to look down at her, but tightened his hold on her, just the same. “You going to tell me what `baka' means?”

 

A decidedly guilty sort of expression surfaced on her face for a moment before she managed to blank her features, casting him an entirely too-bright smile. “Oh, that . . . It . . . It means . . . um . . . darling! Yes, that's what it means . . .”

 

He narrowed his eyes on her and slowly shook his head. “Yeah, why don't I believe that?”

 

Her eyes widened at the obvious accusation in his voice and demeanor. “I don't know what you're talking about taijya . . .” she hedged.

 

“Oh, Christ, it means something bad, doesn't it?” he grumbled.

 

She twittered out a rather nervous little laugh. “Of course not!” she insisted.

 

“Tanny!” the girl hollered again, this time jumping up and down on the bed.

 

Kurt heaved a sigh and shook his head as Samantha leaned up to quickly kiss his cheek then stepped away to scoop up the child. “Let's go find you some more `tanny',” she said as she headed toward the door with the squirming toddler. “We'll be right back,” she promised.

 

“Uh huh,” he called after her, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you're going to tell me what it really means.”

 

“I can't hear you!” she said, wiggling her fingers jauntily as she let herself out of the room.

 

Kurt watched her go then sighed again, figuring that he might as well give up on finding out what she'd called him, exactly, but he couldn't help the little smile that quirked on his lips, either. The feeling that everything was going to be all right was a strange one to him, and while it wasn't completely unwelcome, it was more than a bit unsettling.

 

Still . . .

 

Turning back to the window once more, he frowned at the two figures standing on the beach, the ones he recognized as Samantha's parents. It wasn't really as simple as that, was it? Even if the family understood the whole `mates' thing, and Kurt didn't doubt for a second that they did—that was why they hadn't just killed him outright, wasn't it?—he wasn't even going to try to delude himself into thinking that those two were going to be all right with the situation. They were her parents, right? How could they be?

 

It was clear to him, of course, that he didn't dare do anything to jeopardize Samantha's well being, and even now, he had to admit that he'd felt compelled to come after her despite his reluctance to do it. Maybe he'd realized that his fate was inexorably tied to hers—had been from the moment he'd met her . . .

 

But her parents . . .

 

She had something that he didn't: a family, and that family loved and cherished her, too, and as much as he loved her—he knew without a doubt that he did—he still wasn't entirely certain, was he? After all, her family was never, ever going to accept him, and while he didn't really mind that part of it—hell, he'd hate him, too, if he were them—the last thing he wanted to do was to drag Samantha into the middle of it, either . . .

 

So the real question was, how the hell could he stop that from happening . . .?

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought from Samantha:

My mate!

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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~