InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 4: Justification ❯ Introspection ( Chapter 12 )

~~Chapter 12~~

~Introspection~

 

Jamming his hands into his pockets as he scowled at the sidewalk and increased his pace, Kichiro slouched his shoulders and plodded on. He didn't really have a destination in mind. He didn't have a place to go or someone to meet. No, he'd just had to get out of the restaurant. He had to get away from her.

 

`You were a bit of a bastard, weren't you?'

 

Kichiro winced and snorted. `Was I? Didn't notice.'

 

`Right, just like she didn't notice. Kich, you realize that what she did . . . it wasn't really that bad.'

 

He didn't answer. It wasn't the severity of her manipulation. What bothered him most was the ease in which she did it. Wasn't she too young to have mastered such behavior? And he . . .

 

How many times had he seen women walk through the doors of his office---the same women with different faces? Women who could afford his services, and they all wanted the same thing: the perfect bodies, the perfect everything, and in the end, all that really mattered to them was that they got the perfection they wanted. They thought that he was for sale, too, and that . . .

 

Kichiro sighed. He wasn't for sale, damn it. He wasn't one of their toys. He wasn't someone who could be manipulated and tricked by the flash of skin, by the empty promises that didn't mean a fucking thing to any of them.

 

Shouldering the door open, Kichiro slipped into the bar. He recognized the scent of the place despite the years since he'd last been there. He hadn't been in here since well before Ryomaru and Nezumi had mated, right? `Damn . . . nearly six years . . .' Still the bar had retained the stench of liquor, the underlying reek of sweat, of secretions that were darker, baser. Those smells couldn't be masked by the harsh cleansers that humans used to disinfect. Human senses of smell couldn't discern such things, could they? Kichiro could, and the scent both repulsed him and compelled him, drew him into the darkness that had become a way of life for far too long, and horrified him as shadows of memories assailed him.

 

It had been easier to bend to the sway of things that were freely offered, wasn't it? It was so simple to be drawn into the false sense that if he just searched long enough, he'd find what he had been searching for. `That's how it was, wasn't it? Just one more girl, Kich . . . just one more woman, and eventually, you'll find her . . .' He'd believed that, hadn't he? He'd thought he would find that elusive woman here in the squalor and the filth of a common bar.

 

Slipping into a quiet booth in the back of the establishment, Kichiro dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his brother's number.

 

“Izayoi.”

 

“Ryo, what are you doing?”

 

Ryomaru shifted the phone and cleared his throat. “Nothing . . . quiet night at home. Why?”

 

“Quiet night? You?”

 

“Sure. There's something to be said for that, don't you think?”

 

Kichiro's mouth twisted into a vague half-smile. “I suppose.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

Kichiro shook his head. “The bar . . .”

 

“You wanna come over? Nez has her nose buried in a magazine again . . .”

 

Wincing, Kichiro sighed. “No . . . thanks . . . Say hi for me.”

 

“Yep.”

 

The line went dead, and Kichiro snapped his phone closed. Pushing aside the feeling that he was the fifth wheel, he gestured for the waitress and slumped back in the booth.

 

“Whiskey,” Kichiro ordered tersely. The waitress nodded and hurried away.

 

Unlike Ryomaru, he hadn't had a friend there under his nose the entire time. He hadn't had the girl that he had just overlooked over the years. No, and truthfully, he had really expected Ryomaru to screw all that up, too. Ryomaru was too reactionary, too volatile, and wasn't the joke on Kichiro, after all? Ryomaru had found his mate, and while Kichiro was happy for his sibling, he couldn't help but feel in some small part of himself, the vicious bite of complete jealousy. Shouldn't that have been him? Shouldn't he have found his match sooner than his baka brother? Not that he'd ever wanted Nezumi in that way, but the relationship between Ryomaru and Nezumi . . . it had somehow become the perfect match that Kichiro couldn't help but envy.

 

`It's because they're equal. It's because they value each other, and they respect the other above anyone else. It's because they were friends before they were lovers, and you know that. Hard to watch, is it, Kich?'

 

`Maybe,' he allowed as the waitress set the scratched glass of whiskey beside him. He stayed her with a hand on her sleeve. “Bring the bottle.”

 

The waitress looked surprised but she nodded before hurrying away again.

 

`You've got liquor at home, Kich.'

 

`I know.'

 

`Then why are we here?'

 

`Don't be stupid.'

 

`Oh? So lonely any woman will do? Is that it?'

 

`I don't want a woman.'

 

`Yeah . . . you want a `little girl', don't you?'

 

Kichiro snorted as he drained his glass and tapped his foot under the table.

 

`Face it, Kich! You can't even stand to go home lately. Why is that?'

 

He shook his head as the waitress wordlessly set the full bottle of imported Jack Daniels beside him. `I go home.'

 

`Yeah, you go home . . . you just hate it.'

 

True enough. The emptiness of his domain was a living, breathing thing. He'd paid someone to furnish and decorate the place shortly after it was built. Near Ryomaru and Nezumi, he had thought it was the perfect spot in the beginning. The interior designer he'd paid an exorbitant amount of money had assured him that the house was `exactly' what Kichiro had in mind, and maybe it was. The trouble wasn't the house, itself; it was what should be there, and no interior designer, no matter how good they were, could fill that space.

 

Maybe he should have just bought a house instead of building one. There was an intangible quality, a lived-in feel of one that had once held a family. As though their laughter had permeated the very structure of the house, it would transform the dwelling from the empty feel of his house to the warmer atmosphere that it sorely lacked.

 

“Hello . . . you alone?”

 

Kichiro glanced up from emptying his third glass of whiskey.

 

“I'm Aneko.”

 

Kichiro shook his head, pasted on his most tolerant smile that he normally reserved for his patients, and tried not to let his derision show. Painted and powdered, primped and polished, he'd seen her kind way too many times before. A beautiful face with nothing underneath; a girl who thought that her value as a person rested in the eyes of a man, and he . . . he was tired of that game.

 

“I'm waiting for someone,” he responded tightly.

 

Aneko's smile faltered. “I see . . . Sorry to have bothered you.”

 

Kichiro nodded as he dismissed her completely, downing another glass of whiskey, grimacing as the harsh liquor burned his throat as he poured another one.

 

It used to be that he and Ryomaru---and Toga, before Sierra came along---would prowl around on nights like this one. Though most of the time Toga was there to act more as the twins' common sense than to actually look for girls, Kichiro couldn't help but remember those times as golden. It had always amused him, just how embarrassed their cousin would be when he would be the one to garner attention from the women. Toga would blush and stammer and basically retreat into the arrogance of the tai-youkai that he could don at will.

 

In the end, though, he'd stopped accompanying them when Sierra came around, and while Ryomaru never really commented on it, he had known that, at the time, Ryomaru had felt the same sort of emptiness that Kichiro felt now, even if Ryomaru never experienced that same thing on the same level that Kichiro did. Then came that fateful night when Ryomaru had mated Nezumi . . .

 

Only a fool like Ryomaru could screw things up quite so badly only to end up with the embodiment of the perfect match in the end. In those days, Kichiro had felt sorry for his baka twin. He'd really thought that Ryomaru might never see the light of day again. He'd tried to help, in his own way. Talking to Nezumi and trying to make Ryomaru see what was right in front of him all along . . .

 

Kichiro's frown shifted into a cynical smile. That was his job, wasn't it? That's what he did. He fixed it all for his twin. It had always been that way. Over the years he'd cleaned up more of Ryomaru's messes than he cared to think about. Always talking them both out of trouble, even when he hadn't had a thing to do with it, Kichiro was the one who thought fast, who could talk their way out of punishment, especially with their mother.

 

Ryomaru was older by a few minutes, and it had always seemed to Kichiro that he'd spent the better portion of his life trying to catch up to his brother. The born fighter, the undisputed hunter, Ryomaru was everything that Kichiro had never been.

 

Though he never said as much, Izayoi InuYasha valued physical strength. He'd spent years fighting and protecting their mother, protecting the Shikon no Tama . . . protecting his friends and those he held dear . . . Ryomaru had followed in his footsteps, becoming the youkai hunter, fighting to protect their family, being the hero . . .

 

Maybe Kichiro wasn't really hero material. More likely to talk his way out of a fight than to actually throw a punch, more capable of finessing and sweet-talking instead of losing his temper, Kichiro had never been like his father or his brother in that sense. Then again, he'd never had to be, either. He was more soft-hearted than his volatile brother, he supposed . . .

 

Gin was crying. She'd fallen down and scraped her knee. Ryomaru was out with InuYasha, practicing tracking skills. Kagome was at the shrine helping their grandmother. Five year-old Gin had been roller-skating on the porch and had gotten a little too close to the stairs.

 

“What'd you do, baka?” nine-year old Kichiro asked as he knelt down in the grass beside his sister.

 

Gin sniffled and swatted the tears out of her eyes. “I fell.”

 

Kichiro moved her hand away from her injured knee and snorted. “Feh! It isn't that bad, Gin. Stop crying, okay?”

 

Her golden eyes, still glassy with unshed tears, rose to meet his. Nostrils quivering, lip trembling, she blinked to force back her tears and nodded. “O-okay.”

 

“Stay here, and don't move.”

 

She nodded again as he hopped up and ran in the house for the first aid kit. When he got back, Gin hadn't moved, not an inch. Kichiro shook his head. Gin took everything way too literally. Gently dabbing away the blood with a cleansing pad, Kichiro tried not to hurt her as Gin sniffled. “This might hurt,” he said with an apologetic wince as he dug out the antiseptic spray.

 

Gin held her breath---she always did that when she was hurt.

 

“You're hanyou. You'll be healed by morning,” he went on, wincing again when she jerked her leg. Whether it was because of the cold spray or because it stung, he didn't know. Either way, he hurriedly bandaged the scrape, and Gin finally let out the pent-up air with a whoosh. “There. All better?”

 

Gin nodded, drawing a deep, stunted breath. Kichiro made a face as he scanned the surrounding forest for any signs of his father or brother. With a sigh, he scooted over beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders. “It's okay, Gin. Everyone falls down sometime.”

 

“Thanks, Kich,” Gin muttered, leaning against him, trusting him because he took care of her. “It doesn't hurt so bad now.”

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Kichiro repacked the first aid kit and helped Gin to her feet. “Come on. Let's see if Mama has ice cream in the house.”

 

Gin's smile was brilliant. “Okay!” she agreed, standing up and letting Kichiro help her up the stairs onto the porch.

 

They'd eaten a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream that they'd blamed on the dog and had both gone to bed early with stomach aches, but that day . . .

 

Kichiro frowned as he swirled the contents of his glass idly. The amber liquid looked hazy in the scratched and worn glass. He smiled sadly. He was the hero for once, and he'd loved it.

 

His cell phone rang, and Kichiro checked the number. It was Ryomaru. He probably wanted Kichiro to come over. Kichiro stuffed the phone back into his pocket and waited for it to stop ringing. The trouble was he just didn't feel like sitting around his brother's house while Ryomaru and Nezumi laughed at things that only made sense to the two of them and whispered things that Kichiro didn't want to hear. His brother was the fortunate one, wasn't he? He'd been able to find his best friend and soul mate, all wrapped up in Nezumi.

 

Nezumi.

 

The twins had grown up with her. Kichiro couldn't remember a time when she wasn't tagging along despite knowing that she'd moved to Tokyo at the start of their third grade year. She'd become a part of their jealously guarded group---back then, just the twins---and he'd accepted her, no questions asked, because Ryomaru had befriended her. Kichiro had never felt anything but friendship toward Nezumi, and yet she was still the one that he compared other women to, wasn't she? She didn't hide behind façades; she didn't feel the need to be anyone other than who she was. Nezumi wouldn't stoop to manipulation, wouldn't bat her eyelashes or flaunt her body with anyone other than her mate. In so many ways, she reminded Kichiro of his mother---not that Izayoi Kagome had ever been a tomboy, but she didn't do those things, either. True enough, Kagome might well cajole his father into bending to her will, but then Kichiro imagined that most women could do that.

 

Wasn't that what bothered him most? The manipulation, itself, wasn't his complaint. What he hated more than anything was that all those women wouldn't think twice about that fine line. Whether they were manipulating a waiter to take back their food and have it cooked a little more or they were trying to manipulate him . . .

 

`Ah, and we're back to Belle, are we?'

 

`Nope.'

 

`But you are. Can't quite get her out of your system, can you? Oh, well. She's not as bad as some others I could think of . . . at least she's got a mighty fine rack.'

 

Kichiro shook his head again. `Lay off her, will you? I'm not interested.'

 

`Balls, Kich. You're not as irritated at what she did as you are that she had the nerve to tweak your pride.'

 

`She did no such thing because I don't care.'

 

`You do, you know. She completely irked you because she had the nerve to be nice to the waiter---nicer than she usually is to you. You're just ticked off because you were giving her a chance---which is more than you normally do lately---and she stepped on your toes.'

 

Two more glasses of whiskey disappeared before Kichiro trusted himself to reply to that. `What's that supposed to mean?'

 

`You know what it means. You've become so jaded and cynical that you try to find reasons to exclude people before you give them a chance to show you that you just might be wrong.'

 

`That's bullshit. I don't do that. Belle's just a pretty girl who doesn't know what the hell she's doing; a little girl who thinks it's cute to try to get her way. Well, I'm not playing her game. I don't have time, and I don't care.'

 

“Here. Compliments of the girls over there.”

 

Kichiro glanced up as the waitress set a glass of some frothy pink drink on the table in front of him. Following the direction the waitress had indicated, he sighed inwardly as two women at the bar wiggled their fingers at him. Kichiro pushed the glass away. “No, thanks.”

 

The waitress nodded but left the glass, turning and quietly slipping back over to the bar again.

 

`What's really bugging you, Kich? I mean, she wasn't nearly as bad with the waiter as you'd like to believe. Sure, she touched his arm, and she fawned over him a little. That can't be all of it.'

 

`Too bad, because that's all there is,' he countered.

 

`You know that ain't true. What was that? You were starting to care, weren't you? Yeah, you didn't want to, and yeah, you'll deny it now, but you know . . . When she looked so sad about her father . . . you cared, didn't you? At least, for that moment, right?'

 

Kichiro sighed as the unwanted memory solidified in his mind. Belle, in that pretty little mauve dress that looked like it was tailored to fit her, looking so alone as she stared at her water glass, as she ran a delicate claw around the rim of that glass . . . And that unsettling feeling that he knew how she felt because he'd felt the same way more and more often of late: completely alone, completely lost, and no one noticed, did they? Her bronze hair caught the glimmer of the ambient candle light from the centerpiece on the table, the golden sheen lending her a soft glow, an enigmatic aura, and her eyes---dark as midnight---with that haunted look that she tried to hide. In that moment, he'd thought that maybe they really weren't so different, hadn't he? He'd thought . . .

 

`She really seemed so different,' he confessed; a whisper in his mind. `I thought maybe she was different . . .'

 

`But you don't want her to be different, Kich, because then you have to admit that you were wrong, and you just fucking hate that, don't you? You know it's true. You'd rather be miserable and alone and right than to admit that maybe you'd misjudged someone; that maybe---just maybe---you were wrong.'

 

That wasn't true, was it? Of course not. That would make him just as stupid and shallow as the women he condemned by the dozens every day in his mind. No, the problem with Belle was that she really was just a spoiled brat who had just been handed the world and never really had to work for a damn thing, and somewhere along the line, she'd picked up the bad habit of using herself to get what she wanted. Dangerous, that combination; dangerous and stupid . . .

 

`Well, if she's so unsalvageable, why are you wasting your time and efforts? Why look at her every single day in your office if you can't stand her?'

 

Kichiro snorted. `Feh. That's true. I can't save her from herself. I don't even care.'

 

`Right, you don't.'

 

Kichiro opened his cell phone and hit speed dial---conveniently ignoring his youkai, who was pointing out the fact that Kichiro had cared enough to put Belle's number on his speed dial in the first place----and waited for her to answer her phone.

 

 

-8888888888888888888888888888888888-

 

 

The steady drum of hot water should have soothed away the lingering traces of upset that settled around Belle like a storm cloud. It had been wishful thinking, to try to escape her upset by seeking refuge in the fabricated warmth that she'd learned to rely on long ago.

 

At least the tears had stopped.

 

`I wish it were raining.'

 

`You're too old to play in the rain, Belle, and even if you weren't, you're in the middle of Tokyo.'

 

`I know . . .'

 

With a sigh, she lifted her chin, let the water hit her full-on. `It all used to be so much simpler, didn't it? How old was I, when I first realized that everything was . . . not that easy?'

 

`Haven't you always known somewhere in your heart that things weren't quite the way they were supposed to be?'

 

She sighed. Maybe she had. Cain was a good father, a loving father; doting, kind, fair . . . Still how often had she sensed it, that there was a part of him that she couldn't reach? He gave her everything she could have ever wanted, and he didn't ask for anything in return. Those things were irrelevant as she looked back. There were too many things that had gone unsaid, too many questions that she couldn't ask him.

 

Belle squeezed her eyes closed, tried to ignore the bittersweet images that filled her head.

 

Four year-old Belle, sitting in the studio, quiet in the corner with her dolls while Daddy worked on his latest sculpture . . . Opening her mouth to ask him in her timid little voice if he would play with her, something always seemed to stop her. Daddy wouldn't yell at her; he never yelled at her. He would smile at her in that vague sort of way, and he'd wash his hands and kneel beside her, kiss her dolls, ruffle her hair, and with a sigh, he'd stand back up and return to his work.

 

Five year-old Belle, watching in silence from her little corner of the studio while her father's hands created beauty . . . He always had such a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were looking back through time or forward into a future that she couldn't comprehend. Every so often he would glance up at her, cast that sad little half-smile at her, and she would smile back; the dutiful child, even back then . . .

 

Six year-old Belle, reading books in the studio while her father painted. Stumbling over a big word, she'd ask him to explain it to her, and he would---of course he would---but always with that sad little smile, those shadows in his gaze that she never understood . . .

 

Seven year-old Belle, looking at old photo albums, asking questions that Cain always answered. All she knew of her mother were images caught on paper and stuck in a book . . . and Cain . . . how much had it hurt him, to hear Belle's endless questions, to answer her in the same gentle tone . . . to never, ever lose patience with the little girl who didn't understand certain things about life, about death, and about promises?

 

She'd tried a few times to ask him. Careful to find just the right turn of phrase, unwilling to hurt her father even to appease her curiosity, Belle had practiced in the forest, by the ocean, strove to find the right way to ask him the questions that she had to have answered. What happened to her mother? Why did Cain always seem so sad? Would he promise to be with her forever? Standing beside the doorway of his studio---the room she'd come to realize was his private hell---she wrung her hands, bit her lip, shuffled her feet, trying to force out the words she'd so carefully practiced. The words never came. The questions couldn't be asked. The many things she wanted to know fell by the wayside as he worked the clay or stone, as he created visions of beauty even from the depths of his pain.

 

`Pain? Are we sure it was pain?'

 

Belle sighed and closed her eyes. It was pain. With age had come the ability to read and understand the emotions others tried to suppress, and with her father, she'd realized what he'd tried so hard to hide from her. A sorrow so complete, self-loathing and doubt . . .

 

He hid these things from her, but hadn't she felt them all along? It hadn't taken her long to figure out that the reason for his sadness was her mother's death, and though she wished she could understand just what he wasn't telling her, she didn't have the heart to ask. To question him would bring him pain, but there was more to it, too. If she questioned him; if she asked him for answers, then he'd realize, wouldn't he? He'd realize that she wasn't the little girl he adored. He'd discern just a little too much.

 

So she chose instead to repress her questions, to live in the shadows of answers she didn't want; to live in the careful pretense of the little girl whose daddy could do no wrong; who never knew anything but happiness and the safety of a father's warm embrace.

 

`Daddy, can I go to the movies with some friends?'

 

`Daddy, can I go on a date?'

 

`Daddy, I'm going to the mall.'

 

`Daddy, I'll be back later . . .'

 

Belle felt the tightness of tears constricting her throat, throbbing behind her eyes, prickling her nose. She felt those things, and yet the tears wouldn't come. `Stop that, Belle! You're the daughter of the tai-youkai, and you don't cry. You don't cry over your father, and you won't cry over anyone else! You are your father's daughter, and Cain has never, ever cried! Don't you do it; don't you dare!'

 

`Don't cry . . .? Right . . .'

 

She winced as she turned off the water---now reduced to a tepid flow---almost cold. Stepping out of the shower as she grabbed the fluffy blue towel, she drew a deep breath and dried off slowly.

 

Caught in the middle between childhood and being an adult, Belle had come to understand that her father would let her do just about anything, so long as she masked it in the words of the little girl. So long as she played along with his perception of his never-aging child. Clinging to the belief that Belle was still a child was something that Cain needed, and yet he hadn't seemed upset when she first started dating, either. Of course, they were boys she'd known growing up, had gone to school with, and, in the end, had outgrown long ago. She had realized that Cain didn't like the thought of her dating anyone, and yet he also never tried to stop her, either.

 

Kelly was the one who explained that to her. Kelly, in her brash, no-nonsense way, had told Belle a lot of things that Belle hadn't wanted to see.

 

“Daddy doesn't mind if I date. It's kind of weird. I mean, he won't let me walk from home to the gas station for a soda, but he doesn't care if a boy comes and picks me up for a date?”

 

Kelly let the stack of CD cases in her hands drop onto the bed in a clatter and rolled over onto her stomach in the middle of Belle's huge pink ruffled bedspread. “Well, duh, Bellaniece. You think he'd care? He's waiting for you to get old enough to find a mate and all that. Isn't it obvious?”

 

Belle shook her head as she rifled through her closet for a dress for her date later that evening. “What do you mean, obvious? Daddy's cool, that's all.”

 

“Your mother died so long ago you don't even remember her, and he's had to stay behind to raise you. Do you think that he doesn't mean to die, too? Of course he does! He needs you mated, and he needs you to have a son so he can do that. Don't you get it?”

 

Belle's shock and upset must have been apparent on her face because Kelly flinched. “Look, Bellaniece . . . I'm sorry . . . I wasn't trying to hurt you, but sometimes . . . You really do live in a dream world, don't you? Why don't you ask him? With as overprotective as he is, it's strange that he lets you date, don't you think?”

 

Yeah, she did think so. She just didn't want to face the truth of Kelly's statements. That was the last time Belle had gone on a real date, too . . .

 

That had also marked the beginning of Belle's obsession with finding a mate for Cain. Sure, she'd tried to do that before, when she was younger. She'd had a teacher who was young and single, and Belle had been secretly hopeful because at the time---she was five---she had wanted a mother. Going to school had made her realize that there was someone that should have been in her life but wasn't. She'd found out then, that the other kids all had these women they called `Mommy', and, well . . . she didn't.

 

`Telling, wasn't it? Your father never, ever mentioned your mother to you before that, did he?'

 

`No . . . no, he didn't.'

 

What Belle knew of her mother was sketchy, at best. She knew her name was Isabelle; knew that Isabelle had been a budding Broadway star until she'd met and married Cain. Belle knew that she was named after Isabelle, and she knew that Isabelle was a stunning woman---all information garnered from newspaper clippings and photographs. Very little was actually learned from Cain. He didn't like to talk about Isabelle, and he didn't like to hear Bellaniece's name shortened to `Belle', either. In fact, the one time he had heard it, he'd come uncharacteristically close to losing his temper with a young man who had come to take Cain's daughter on a date. Belle had cautioned all her friends not to do that again, at least in front of her father.

 

Yet her childhood had been filled with things that others probably never really thought about, either. Belle could remember wandering through her father's estate as night fell over the land, and Cain came to find her. She would give him the bouquets of wildflowers she'd picked, and he would bury his nose in them, just for her, sneeze a few times, and she'd laugh . . .

 

Packing picnics of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and dragging her father outside to bask in the sunshine, and if she were lucky, she could convince him to spend an hour or so playing hide and seek. Cain had always pretended that the peanut butter and jelly were better than the finest cuisine. He made her feel special; he made her feel loved, and he always---always---made her feel safe.

 

The first day of kindergarten had frightened Belle. Clinging to Cain's pants, she'd buried her face in his legs. He had smiled apologetically at her teacher, knelt before his daughter as he'd gently pried her fingers away. He'd told her that he'd be back for her when school was over, and he'd told her that he loved her. His words had bolstered her courage, and she'd taken her teacher's hand. Slowly following along behind, Bellaniece had glanced back at her father. Cain stood there, hands jammed into his pockets, a vague sadness in his gaze as he slowly lifted his hand to wave, and at noon, he was there to pick her up. Every day he was there, and every day, he carried her home, even after Belle had forgotten to be afraid.

 

She remembered playing in the rain until her hair was plastered to her head and her dress was ruined, her shiny white shoes scuffed and soggy, her feet squishing with every dancing step she took . . . Daddy always found her, and more often than not, he'd dance with her awhile, holding her in his arms while he twirled her around to music that only the two of them could hear.

 

Then he'd carry her into the house, build a fire, discard her ruined clothes, and wrap her in his Mokomoko-sama where they'd cuddle by the fire, and sometimes they'd toast marshmallows until she was nearly sick from the snack and drowsing in his arms. He'd carry her to bed, smile at the sticky baby kisses she pressed to his cheek, and tuck her in, leaving her little ballerina lamp on beside her, to keep her company through the night. Then he'd wind her little silver music box and blow her a kiss before he slipped out of the room . . .

 

`Always Daddy . . .'

 

He was the only real stability she'd ever known. She didn't have brothers or sisters; no aunts or uncles. There was no one else to be her hero; no one but Daddy, and when she contemplated the idea that even he would be gone . . .

 

`My happiness . . . every little girl's dream . . . Mine has a higher price, doesn't it? To be happy, I'd lose . . .'

 

Deliberately cutting off her train of thought, Belle tugged on the shirt she wore as pajamas and took her time buttoning it. Shuffling out of the bathroom with a wave of moist air, Belle shivered as the cooler air of the apartment hit her still-damp skin. She saw the light blinking on the telephone but didn't bother with it as she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and headed back to her bedroom for the night.

 

A small part of her had been crestfallen, that she'd returned to an empty apartment. For the most part, though, she'd been relieved. Able to escape her father's scrutiny, able to wash off the traces of her tears, she'd feel better in the morning. She'd be able to resume her ruse of being the happy-go-lucky daughter that Cain preferred.

 

Curling up on the window ledge, Belle smiled sadly at the rising moon. Maybe she really was as much of an actor as her mother was, and maybe she was better at it than Isabelle had ever been.

 

She sighed as her eyes caught the mauve dress she had left in a careless heap on the floor. Normally she was more careful with her clothes, but she'd been in such a hurry to get into the shower before Daddy got home, before he could smell her tears and ask questions of his own . . .

 

Uncurling herself from her perch, Belle slowly walked over and shook out the dress before hanging it back in her closet. Wincing as the vague scent of Kichiro Izayoi wafted to her sensitive nose, she yanked the dress back down and stomped out of her room and down the hallway to the small laundry room where she proceeded to shove the dress into the washer with a good dose of detergent and pushed the `on' button.

 

`He's such a . . . jerk! Arrogant, mean, cynical . . .'

 

`If you're not careful, Belle, you're going to end up just as upset as you were, and it takes too long to recharge the water heater.'

 

She turned and flopped back against the washer, arms crossed over her chest stubbornly. `Nope, now I'm just mad, that's all.'

 

`Maybe you should ask him why he reacted like that.'

 

`Maybe I'd rather eat dirt than talk to the likes of him again.'

 

`You know that's not really what is bugging you.'

 

Belle wrinkled her nose. `Yes, well, it'll do.'

 

`Face it, Belle . . . what bothers you most is that you let Kichiro see a part of you that you rarely show anyone, including your father, and he . . . well, he could have slapped you across the face because it would have hurt a little less.'

 

Belle blinked furiously, jamming her toes against the wooden floorboards. `Maybe.'

 

`Maybe? Come off it, Belle . . . You hate being vulnerable. You can't stand the idea that someone is going to hurt that little girl you hide in there. You want to be a woman, but you can't let go of the past, and as long as your daddy insists on keeping his promise . . . but you know, before all that, when you were talking to Kichiro, you felt something, didn't you? He wanted you to be yourself, and then, when you were . . .'

 

Pushing herself away from the washing machine, Belle ambled back toward her bedroom once more. `Let's not talk about him, okay? I don't even want to think about . . . him. I wonder how Daddy's date is going . . .'

 

`Yeah, about that . . . don't even try to delude yourself into thinking that your father won't kill you when he gets home. He was furious when he left, if you didn't notice . . .'

 

`As true as that may be, we both know that Daddy's just being stubborn. I can't put my finger on it, but the thing is, I know he likes her. He really likes her.'

 

`It isn't as easy as him liking her . . . Belle, this is dangerous. You're not just playing with your father, you know? What about Gin? What if your father can't be convinced? What about Gin?'

 

`Oh, Gin . . . she'll adore my daddy, if she doesn't already. I mean, how could she not? He's daddy!'

 

`Not that, Belle . . . what if Gin does fall for your father? What if her youkai blood recognizes your father as her mate . . . you're not just toying with him, Belle . . . you just might be putting Gin in very real danger, too.'

 

Belle stopped abruptly and shook her head against the hint of doubt that she hadn't considered before. `No . . . that wouldn't happen, right? I mean, they'd have to both recognize each other as their mates, if that were the case, and then there's no way Daddy would leave her . . .'

 

`Are you sure, Belle? Are you positive?'

 

`I . . . yes, yes, I'm sure. Daddy wouldn't do that, especially to Gin . . .'

 

Her youkai sighed. `All right, Belle, but listen: if it seems like your father isn't going to cave in . . . you have to warn Gin. You have to.'

 

Belle bit her lip as she sank back down on the window seat again. `Yeah. I . . . I will.'

 

 

-8888888888888888888888888888888888-

 

 

`You sure you want to do this?'

 

`Shut up. I'm here, right?'

 

`For the record, I think this is a mistake.'

 

`Yeah? Please note: I didn't ask.'

 

Raising his fist to knock on the door, Kichiro ignored the voice of his youkai.

 

It took several minutes before he heard movement inside the apartment. Brushing aside the fleeting guilt that maybe she was sleeping, he snorted to himself and thumped the door once more.

 

Belle opened the door, dark eyes flicking coolly over him as she made no move to unchain the latch. “Isn't it rather late for a house call, Dr. Izayoi?”

 

“Yeah, I tried calling. Those normally work better when one answers one's damn phone.”

 

She turned her head, probably to glance over at the telephone. When she turned back, her expression was still as impassive as it was before. “Yes, well, one of us is in the habit of showering.”

 

Kichiro snorted at Belle's acidic answer. “Whatever . . . Look, the reason I came by . . . forget the agreement. I'll do your friend's surgery, just . . . don't bother coming in on Monday.”

 

He'd expected her to be pleased, he guessed. He expected her to be thankful and even grateful that he'd released her from her obligation. She had a million other things---a million other men to manipulate---that she should have been grateful for his statement. What he didn't expect was for the door to close softly in his face followed moments later by the rattle of the chain coming undone before the door opened once more revealing an obviously irate hanyou, replete in her angry splendor . . . and nothing but a man's button-down shirt.

 

“You really are a bastard, aren't you, Dr. Izayoi? I mean, you really expect me to drop to my knees and kiss your feet because you have deemed me unworthy of working for the likes of you? Why? So you can sit back in your office and be all high and mighty because you were right? `Belle-chan can't stand to do an honest day's work? I knew it! I just knew it! I'm so right about everything and everyone! Go, me!' Go to hell, Dr. Izayoi. I'll be there Monday morning---probably before you are.”

 

“What?” he sputtered, backing up a step in the face of her ire. “What the hell are you talking about? I thought you'd be happy, damn it! I thought---”

 

She fluttered a hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. “You need to stop thinking once in awhile. It might save you from looking like an ass once in awhile, don't you think?”

 

`She just . . . she didn't! She just called me a bastard and an ass?'

 

`Well, Kich . . . if the shoe fits . . . or shoes . . .'

 

`Shut the hell up, will you?'

 

`Then don't ask me!'

 

“Listen, little girl, I was trying to do you a favor.”

 

She shook her head. “Well, don't. You already made your feelings crystal clear, and that's fine. I was stupid to think that there was more to you than just the jerk you were in the beginning, but that's okay because I learn from my mistakes, and calling you, in the first place, was the biggest mistake of them all. Now if you'll excuse me, I was just going to bed when you came knocking at my door.”

 

Kichiro stuck his foot in the door before Belle managed to close it in his face. His temper was strained well beyond its normal limits, and with a resounding thud, he smashed the door open with the palm of his hand. Belle squeaked and retreated as Kichiro stomped into the apartment. “I don't understand you at all, do you know? You're absolutely unnatural, damn it, and---”

 

“I'm completely natural, I'll have you know,” Belle pointed out reasonably, her tone leaving little room for misinterpretation in Kichiro's mind as to just what she was referring to.

 

“That's not what I mean, wench, and I think you know that.”

 

“Wench?” she echoed, arching one of her delicate light brown eyebrows. “Now, that's interesting . . .”

 

“Do you always answer the door in next to nothing?”

 

“Do you always go around knocking on people's doors at nearly midnight?”

 

“Answer my question first.”

 

Belle forced a tight little smile. “Don't be absurd. I knew it was you. Since I just got done washing your stink out of my dress, then I'd know, right?”

 

He could feel indignant color explode in his face, and struggling for every last bit of restraint he could muster, Kichiro uttered a fierce growl as he stalked toward Belle, who apparently didn't have the common sense to run. No, she stood her ground, glaring right back at him, eyes snapping with anger as he closed in on her. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips dusted with deep, flushed color, and for some stupid reason, the idea of kissing her was suddenly much, much more appealing than the prior inclination to yell at her . . .

 

His hands shot out, wrapped around her upper arms, dragging her roughly against his chest, he heard her gasp. “You're going to learn someday that you really shouldn't provoke me . . .”

 

“Let go,” she murmured as her cheeks pinked a little more. Staring into her eyes was a dangerous thing. The anger that had served to thwart her better judgment seemed to fade in an instant, and she blinked slowly as something else stole into her gaze; something warm and inviting . . . something dangerous and maybe even lethal . . .

 

“Belle . . .”

 

She swallowed hard. He could see her inner turmoil, and for a moment, she looked like she just might give in. Then she shook her head, closed her eyes, turned her face away. “I think you should leave, Dr. Izayoi. We've said quite enough to each other, don't you agree?”

 

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, letting go of her then. He did it, stepping back as he jammed his hands into his pockets. “You still don't want out of the job?”

 

Belle's hand rose to adjust the collar of the shirt. Her hand was shaking. “Of course not,” she assured him with far more bravado than he could have managed.

 

“Feh. Fine. I won't offer again.”

 

Belle sighed. “No, I didn't think you would.”

 

He reached for the door and jerked it open. “See you Monday, then.”

 

Belle didn't answer as Kichiro pulled the door closed in his wake. Storming toward the stairs, he tried not to think about what had happened in that apartment. The shift in his emotions was understandable, right? Anger was just another form of passion, wasn't it? It wasn't that he had wanted her, at all . . . Of course not . . .

 

`Balls, Kich, you really are dense, aren't you?'

 

`Oh, you again? Go away, will you?'

 

`Hate to tell you, but it don't matter what you try to tell yourself. The truth's there. In case you didn't notice, she wanted you. You just had to be an ass, as usual.'

 

Sprinting down the steps in the stairwell in record time, Kichiro darted for the exit. `She's just a little girl . . . She doesn't have any idea what she wants . . . and I don't want her.'

 

`Yeah, yeah . . . I hear you. You can say that all you want, but you know . . . for not wanting her, you certainly responded to her, didn't you?'

 

Kichiro groaned as he vaulted to the top of the nearest building and ran through the night toward InuYasha's Forest. True enough, as much as he wanted to think otherwise, his body had responded to her . . .

 

`It's going to be a long night, Kich,' his youkai voice complained.

 

Kichiro flattened his ears as he leapt onto the next building. Unfortunately he had a feeling that the voice was right.

 

 

~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~ *~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~

A/N:

== == == == == == == == == ==

Final Thought from Belle:

He wanted to … kiss me … ?

==========

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