InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Stranger In My Bed ❯ Chapter 3
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Yoshimi Evangelina 
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.07.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 322 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.07.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 322 | Status: Completed
Author's note: I do not own any characters from Inu Yasha, but Eva is my creation.
***
If I thought he was beautiful in his sleep, the sight of him awake fills me with a strange sense of wonder despite the fact he would have killed me. I hope I'm not developing Stockholm's Syndrome.
It's late afternoon. I wake up to find him perusing my aunt's encyclopaedias as if he was reading the side of a cereal box. He sits cross-legged on the hardwood floor, the immense boa wrapping itself around him as if it was a separate, living entity, enhancing his regal stature. The dog sits watching him from a respectable distance with awe and reverence in its eyes. Notwithstanding the crushed phone, everything else has been restored to order. For the moment, I'm more intrigued than frightened... or angry. The intensity with which his eyes scan the pages convinces me he's not just looking at the pretty pictures
I realize that I've been placed on my bed, and there's a hot compact on my knee. The knowledge of my grandfather's clothes being worn by him does not soften the cruelty of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows and the animal intensity of those eyes as much as enhance every mocking and disdainful aspect of him. This revelation makes me doubt he was being altruistic when he laid me here. I wonder what will happen next.
As if in answer, he closes the book with care and replaces it on the shelf. Incurably curious, I notice that he's up to the S-series. He rises from the floor with muscular grace and walks over to my bed. The measured pace with which he covers the distance is like a growing cloud. My fingers curl unseen into the blanket covering me up to the chin. I feel like a child staring at the closet, afraid the bogeyman will jump out when he's already here.
Hovering over me, he looks down at me with his cold eyes.
The fire pops. The dog's tongue as it darts out to lick its front paws is like a washer on spin-cycle. My breathing is shallow, as if trying to swallow itself up into oblivion.
Maybe if I don't move, he won't know I'm here.
Nothing is being said as he continues to look down on me with so much... disdain. I'm frozen in that gaze, afraid to turn away, afraid to move a hair, afraid to breathe in case it offends him.
"Where is my sword?" he says. Despite (or because) of his heavy accent, there is an unmistakable air of authority inscribed into each syllable of that simple phrase. I suddenly realize that he is not of this world. That conviction of his otherwordliness lodges itself so solidly in my gut I know this to be true. He has too much alacrity of spirit to be some crazy mad-psychopath in a Halloween costume or some medieval war re-enacter to be anything else but supernatural.
Or maybe I am just experiencing the religious fervour a cultist experiences under an enigmatic, charismatic religious leader. Maybe I'm gazing into Rasputin's eyes. Maybe I'm still out in the snow, lying face down in it dying from hypothermia while my mind conjures up the image of a vengeful, uncaring angel. Devil. Satan. Maybe I can just walk out of here and keep my head.
Whatever he is, I hate feeling like this. So beholden and yet so insignificant in his gaze.
He repeats the question and my backbone finally kicks in. I shake my head at him in agitation. "You tidied up my room well enough, you might as well go look for it yourself." Instead of trying to fight that narrowed, angry glare, I shrug and give him a smirk as if to say What do you expect??. Meanwhile, I'm counting 386-mississippi, 385-mississippi, 384...in my head to stop from trembling.
The brave facade doesn't work. I let out a squeak and shield myself with the heavy concrete-bag of a pillow, before his hand even touches the covers. All he says is "Hnh", pulling back the covers and going to the fireplace. I'm relieved when he returns with another compress for my knee and not a hot poker.
The dog meanwhile follows him with a sense of adoration in its eyes I've never seen before, as if the Master finally came home.
Traitor.
We eye each other again. He sighs when he realizes I'm not budging. Seating himself on the bed, he reaches for my leg and examines my knee.
As if announcing a royal edict, he says "It will heal." He then begins to knead the muscles around it with some medicated ointment, his claws hardly grazing my skin as he forces the stubborn knots to realign themselves properly.
"Another woman was here earlier."
I remain silent, forcing him to continue. If he was as grudgingly 'kind' as he is now, if he came up with a good story, I'm guessing Diana didn't call for help. Or maybe that Diana is dead.
"She left you some food and some hot tea."
"Did you guys have a good time chatting over a cup or did you go on a murderous rampage again?"
He says nothing.
On second thoughts, I really have no point in keeping him here. "Your sword and armour is in the workshop. Just take them and leave." I pull my leg away from him and find him clamping his hand around it instead.
"The years have only made your kind even more stubborn and conceited." He says this levelly despite the increasing annoyance flickering on his brow.
That righteous statement jars my nerves and I feel all my fear harden into steel. As if expelling some nuisance I grate out "What's keeping you here, then??"
The dog perks its ears up as if in anticipation of a hurricane. The cold disdain in his eyes I have become accustomed to melts into a violent, resentful anger as if I have struck a hidden nerve. Releasing my knee, he turns to the window, staring out at the lowering dusk, the ruddy glitter of the sun on the icy snow. Every fibre in his body emanates a latent alertness as he sits there contemplating the scene. Worried, the dog comes over, looking imploringly up at him. She does not jump wildly and unruly at him as she does to everybody else, but she is trembling inside from the need for his attention. Her breath comes out in spasmodic, suppressed emissions as if she'd die if he didn't look at her right now.
Without tilting his head, he reaches out a hand to pat her and she shivers in delight, prancing in delicate circles with her back arched against his shins.
"You will tell me how and where you found me." his tone is unequivocal. And I think this is the part he initially had difficulty with for such an indomitable, arrogant bastard such as himself: "And then you will assist me on my journey home."
***
If I thought he was beautiful in his sleep, the sight of him awake fills me with a strange sense of wonder despite the fact he would have killed me. I hope I'm not developing Stockholm's Syndrome.
It's late afternoon. I wake up to find him perusing my aunt's encyclopaedias as if he was reading the side of a cereal box. He sits cross-legged on the hardwood floor, the immense boa wrapping itself around him as if it was a separate, living entity, enhancing his regal stature. The dog sits watching him from a respectable distance with awe and reverence in its eyes. Notwithstanding the crushed phone, everything else has been restored to order. For the moment, I'm more intrigued than frightened... or angry. The intensity with which his eyes scan the pages convinces me he's not just looking at the pretty pictures
I realize that I've been placed on my bed, and there's a hot compact on my knee. The knowledge of my grandfather's clothes being worn by him does not soften the cruelty of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows and the animal intensity of those eyes as much as enhance every mocking and disdainful aspect of him. This revelation makes me doubt he was being altruistic when he laid me here. I wonder what will happen next.
As if in answer, he closes the book with care and replaces it on the shelf. Incurably curious, I notice that he's up to the S-series. He rises from the floor with muscular grace and walks over to my bed. The measured pace with which he covers the distance is like a growing cloud. My fingers curl unseen into the blanket covering me up to the chin. I feel like a child staring at the closet, afraid the bogeyman will jump out when he's already here.
Hovering over me, he looks down at me with his cold eyes.
The fire pops. The dog's tongue as it darts out to lick its front paws is like a washer on spin-cycle. My breathing is shallow, as if trying to swallow itself up into oblivion.
Maybe if I don't move, he won't know I'm here.
Nothing is being said as he continues to look down on me with so much... disdain. I'm frozen in that gaze, afraid to turn away, afraid to move a hair, afraid to breathe in case it offends him.
"Where is my sword?" he says. Despite (or because) of his heavy accent, there is an unmistakable air of authority inscribed into each syllable of that simple phrase. I suddenly realize that he is not of this world. That conviction of his otherwordliness lodges itself so solidly in my gut I know this to be true. He has too much alacrity of spirit to be some crazy mad-psychopath in a Halloween costume or some medieval war re-enacter to be anything else but supernatural.
Or maybe I am just experiencing the religious fervour a cultist experiences under an enigmatic, charismatic religious leader. Maybe I'm gazing into Rasputin's eyes. Maybe I'm still out in the snow, lying face down in it dying from hypothermia while my mind conjures up the image of a vengeful, uncaring angel. Devil. Satan. Maybe I can just walk out of here and keep my head.
Whatever he is, I hate feeling like this. So beholden and yet so insignificant in his gaze.
He repeats the question and my backbone finally kicks in. I shake my head at him in agitation. "You tidied up my room well enough, you might as well go look for it yourself." Instead of trying to fight that narrowed, angry glare, I shrug and give him a smirk as if to say What do you expect??. Meanwhile, I'm counting 386-mississippi, 385-mississippi, 384...in my head to stop from trembling.
The brave facade doesn't work. I let out a squeak and shield myself with the heavy concrete-bag of a pillow, before his hand even touches the covers. All he says is "Hnh", pulling back the covers and going to the fireplace. I'm relieved when he returns with another compress for my knee and not a hot poker.
The dog meanwhile follows him with a sense of adoration in its eyes I've never seen before, as if the Master finally came home.
Traitor.
We eye each other again. He sighs when he realizes I'm not budging. Seating himself on the bed, he reaches for my leg and examines my knee.
As if announcing a royal edict, he says "It will heal." He then begins to knead the muscles around it with some medicated ointment, his claws hardly grazing my skin as he forces the stubborn knots to realign themselves properly.
"Another woman was here earlier."
I remain silent, forcing him to continue. If he was as grudgingly 'kind' as he is now, if he came up with a good story, I'm guessing Diana didn't call for help. Or maybe that Diana is dead.
"She left you some food and some hot tea."
"Did you guys have a good time chatting over a cup or did you go on a murderous rampage again?"
He says nothing.
On second thoughts, I really have no point in keeping him here. "Your sword and armour is in the workshop. Just take them and leave." I pull my leg away from him and find him clamping his hand around it instead.
"The years have only made your kind even more stubborn and conceited." He says this levelly despite the increasing annoyance flickering on his brow.
That righteous statement jars my nerves and I feel all my fear harden into steel. As if expelling some nuisance I grate out "What's keeping you here, then??"
The dog perks its ears up as if in anticipation of a hurricane. The cold disdain in his eyes I have become accustomed to melts into a violent, resentful anger as if I have struck a hidden nerve. Releasing my knee, he turns to the window, staring out at the lowering dusk, the ruddy glitter of the sun on the icy snow. Every fibre in his body emanates a latent alertness as he sits there contemplating the scene. Worried, the dog comes over, looking imploringly up at him. She does not jump wildly and unruly at him as she does to everybody else, but she is trembling inside from the need for his attention. Her breath comes out in spasmodic, suppressed emissions as if she'd die if he didn't look at her right now.
Without tilting his head, he reaches out a hand to pat her and she shivers in delight, prancing in delicate circles with her back arched against his shins.
"You will tell me how and where you found me." his tone is unequivocal. And I think this is the part he initially had difficulty with for such an indomitable, arrogant bastard such as himself: "And then you will assist me on my journey home."