InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Truce ( Chapter 7 )

~Chapter 7~

~~Truce~~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

`Admit it: it's not that awful, having a houseguest.'

 

`It is. It's torture,' Griffin retorted.

 

`You wish! You're just irritated because you didn't sleep well last night—not that I blame you. It's dangerous, isn't it? Knowing that she's in the same house just across the hall . . .'

 

`I knew I should have bought a bigger house.'

 

`Do you think she wears anything to sleep in?'

 

Choking on a healthy swig of dandelion tea, Griffin scowled at the rising sun, wiping a dribble of tea off his chin with the back of his hand. `The last thing I want or need to know is what that woman wears to sleep in.'

 

`Yeah, you're right . . . that would be even more distracting, don't you think?'

 

`. . . Shut up.'

 

Griffin was saved from further rebuttal by the incessant scratching coming from the other side of the door. The dog had wanted to follow him outside but Griffin hadn't let him. Some dogs liked to chase other animals, and he enjoyed his mornings spent with the squirrels too much to risk letting the dog out while they were enjoying their breakfast.

 

He snorted. That was another thing, wasn't it? Why on earth would she have given the dog such a blatantly girlish name? It was unfathomable. Either she really loved or really hated him. Griffin was inclined to think that she hadn't realized just how ridiculous that name really was . . . In any case, there was simply no way he could bring himself to call the animal by the outrageous name she'd bestowed upon him.

 

`Anyway, Griffin . . .'

 

He sipped the tea, mentally bracing himself for whatever nonsense his youkai was about to spout. `. . . What?'

 

`Why did you insist that she stay here if you, as you say, can't stand her?'

 

`I can't. She's a pain in my ass.'

 

`Yeah, yeah . . . so why keep a pain in the ass underfoot?'

 

He didn't respond to that right away. Letting his gaze come to rest on two of the squirrels who were busy plucking the dried corn off one of the cobs he'd set out, he sighed. Somehow his morning ritual wasn't nearly as calming as it normally was . . . `She's in danger, whether her family sees it or not.'

 

`True enough, but you know better than anyone that the power of the tai-youkai is nothing to be scoffed at, don't you?'

 

`I know nothing of this tai-youkai,' he rebuked coldly.

 

`You know very well that he is his son. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?'

 

`. . . Maybe. Even then, they have the same proof in front of them that I've got, and they haven't figured it out for themselves.'

 

`You know, that's not entirely true. There were things in that journal that they probably don't know, and if you'd have let Isabelle tell them—'

 

`She's too stubborn to let herself be protected. She's a walking, talking disaster just waiting to happen.'

 

`Then why didn't you let her call him?'

 

Griffin's frown deepened. Why, indeed . . .? If he'd simply let her call Cain Zelig when she'd started to, he wouldn't have to worry about her, would he? The trouble was that he'd known deep down that if she'd told him—if she'd explained everything to him that Griffin had told her, the research would have been taken away from her, deemed too dangerous for Isabelle to handle.

 

`Don't make it sound so noble, Griffin. You're not honestly going to try to put a nice face on it, are you?'

 

`Don't know what you're talking about,' Griffin grumbled. `There's nothing else to it.'

 

`Right . . . you know, don't you? If she'd told Zelig, she'd have had to tell him who was translating the information sooner or later since they might have let her finish that much, at least. No, eventually she'd have told them about you, and that would serve little purpose other than opening a can of worms that is best left on a forgotten shelf.'

 

Griffin set the now-tepid tea aside and sighed. `Yeah,' he admitted, a certain resignation seeping into his tone. `Either way, it's just a matter of time . . .'

 

`Maybe.'

 

`Can't run from your past forever, right? You can't run . . . and you can't atone . . .'

 

The vague imagery of burning land; of the stench of death; of the grossly distorted silhouettes flashed through his mind . . . the sound of a little girl's voice, crying out to him . . .

 

He shook his head to dispel the powerful sense of melancholy; of hopelessness that he just couldn't escape. It really was simply a matter of time, and he'd known that when he'd agreed to help her with the translation. All of his sins would come to light.

 

And then . . .

 

And then those smiles, that laughter that Isabelle gave so freely . . . those things that Griffin had to keep at bay . . .

 

Those would disappear, wouldn't they? When she figured out that he was worse than a childhood nightmare, that he'd done things—terrible things . . . things he couldn't hide, and things that he'd never be forgiven for . . .

 

Then she would despise him, and he . . . He deserved her antipathy, didn't he . . .?

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“You know, as much as I complain about days like yesterday when I can't even get a moment to catch my breath, at least the clock moves faster,” Kiley Fortham remarked as she sipped coffee out of a white Styrofoam cup and adjusted the stethoscope that hung around her neck.

 

Isabelle nodded, filling a cup with the slightly burnt brew. “I know what you mean,” she agreed. “At least my shift's almost over . . .”

 

“Yeah . . . you want to get a drink after work?”

 

“Uh, not tonight,” Isabelle said, smiling apologetically. “I promised a friend that I'd head straight home.”

 

“You're too young to be a homebody,” Margaret, the middle-aged, head nurse, remarked as she gently moved Isabelle aside to pour a cup of coffee for herself. “You should be out meeting young men and enjoying life.”

 

“Well, there's something to be said for spending a nice, quiet evening at home,” Isabelle hedged with a smile. “A good book . . . a roaring fire . . . a sexy man . . .”

 

Margaret leveled a no-nonsense look at her as she lifted the steaming cup to her lips. “Not in that order, I hope.”

 

Isabelle laughed. “I'll take them in whatever order I can get them,” she quipped.

 

Margaret heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I would, too,” she agreed wistfully. “Nowadays I'm lucky if my `quiet night at home' doesn't involve running one of the kids to practice or stain-treating the white laundry before tossing it in the washer . . .” She made a face, glowering at the cup of coffee in her hand. “Ugh! Who made this sludge? It's terrible!”

 

“Aw, and I thought it was one of my better pots,” Kiley drawled with a good-natured smile, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

 

Margaret blinked and pasted on an overly bright smile. “Oh, you made it? Then it was good,” she agreed.

 

Isabelle laughed. True enough, of all the things that the young resident doctor was good at, making coffee was just not one of them. In fact, the only person Isabelle knew who consistently made worse coffee was her cousin, Morio . . .

 

“So I'll never catch a husband with my coffee-making skills,” Kiley remarked, a pretty blush staining her pale cheeks as she ducked her head and shrugged. “There are other things I'm good at, or so I've been told . . .”

 

“There's something to be said for that,” Margaret replied then sighed. “God, I miss having sex . . .”

 

Isabelle nearly choked on a swig of coffee. Despite how long as she'd known the older woman, she still couldn't help but be amused whenever dear, sweet Margaret said something of the more risqué nature. Margaret rubbed her back and laughed. “Just because it's slow in here today doesn't mean that you really need to give us something else to do,” she chided though her smile was gentle.

 

Isabelle opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short when Hillary, the girl who was covering the reception desk today, dashed into the room, breathing heavily as she clung to the door frame. “Got a patient,” she said breathlessly. “A boy: Brandon Lincoln. Fell out of a tree, and looks like he might have broken his wrist.”

 

“I'll get it,” Isabelle volunteered, tossing her cup into the garbage can as she strode past it, unconsciously reaching up to make sure her stethoscope was still slung around her neck as she glanced at her watch and took the clipboard from Hillary's grasp in passing. “How old is he?” she asked as Hillary hurried to catch up with her.

 

“Four. His parents are on their way.”

 

Sparing a moment to glance at the receptionist, Isabelle shook her head before returning her attention to the clipboard once more. “Then who brought him in?”

 

“His teacher. They were on a nature hike, and Brandon decided to climb a tree, instead.”

 

“I see . . .” Trailing off, Isabelle stopped short, blinking when she spotted the child held securely in the arms of his . . . teacher . . .? “Griffin?” she blurted, brushing aside the odd sense of surprise that had assailed her.

 

Griffin grimaced and muttered something to the little boy in his arms. “I-I think he broke his arm,” he said, his voice thick with emotion though his expression hadn't changed.

 

She nodded slowly and inclined her head as she smiled at the frightened-looking child. He wasn't crying, though, and that was a good sign, and his color, while a bit peaked, was good. “Hi. I'm Dr. Izayoi. You must be Brandon.”

 

The boy sniffled and nodded, whimpering slightly when Griffin adjusted his grip.

 

“Okay. Let's go see what we can do.”

 

She turned on her heel and led the way back to one of the examination rooms. Ordinarily, something as routine as a broken arm would simply be dealt with in one of the curtained-off areas, but given the boy's age and the lack of more serious cases, Isabelle figured that it would be best to utilize one of the rooms, instead.

 

Griffin followed her and sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs with Brandon. “It's not really a life-threatening situation, so I can't do much of anything until after his parents get here,” she explained as she knelt down in front of them, “but I can take a look at it for now . . . would that be alright with you, Brandon?”

 

Brandon frowned at her like he was measuring her up in his mind, his lips and nostrils quivering though he didn't cry. His arm was very swollen—he at least had a nasty sprain—but he stole a glance up at Griffin, and upon seeing the bear-youkai nod once, Brandon drew a deep breath and nodded, too.

 

She spared a minute to check his vital signs. He didn't look like he was in danger of going into shock, but that hardly mattered. He was holding up really well. His pulse was slightly elevated; no small wonder, considering . . .

 

Isabelle gently felt the limb, carefully monitoring his expression for any signs that she might be hurting him. He whimpered when she neared his wrist, and she pulled her hand away and smiled. “Yep, you broke it,” she informed him. “It feels like a clean break, though, which means that it will heal a lot faster than it would otherwise.”

 

“Do I get a cast?” Brandon asked suddenly, inclining his head as though he were considering the idea for the first time.

 

“Yes, I think you probably will . . . when your mama and papa get here, I'll have one of the nurses take you to get pictures of your arm so we can see your bones.”

 

His eyes widened incredulously. “You can see my bones?”

 

She laughed and winked at the boy. “Absolutely. Don't worry, Brandon. You'll be out of here in no time.”

 

“Dr. Izayoi? Do you need me?”

 

Glancing over in time to see Nell Buckman, one of the nurses, lean into the room, Isabelle waved her hand and shrugged. “Not really . . . would you mind calling and letting x-ray know that I'll be sending Brandon down shortly? Fractured arm.”

 

Nell nodded and winked at Brandon before ducking out of the room again.

 

She braced herself against her knees and pushed herself to her feet once more, pausing for a long moment when she intercepted the grudging thanks that lit the depths of Griffin's gaze. “So Dr. Marin was taking your class hiking?” she asked, turning away to hide the little smile from the youkai's discerning stare. “Did you have fun?”

 

“Yeah,” Brandon allowed. Isabelle glanced over her shoulder in time to see the rather disgusted way the child ducked his head. “Till I falled.”

 

“Hmm, well, you'll have to be a little more careful next time, huh?”

 

Griffin grunted.

 

“I didn't mean to fall,” Brandon grumbled.

 

Isabelle laughed. “No, I don't suppose you did.”

 

She heard Brandon's mother well before she saw her. The rapid approach of heels clicking against the linoleum floor announced his mother's arrival, and with a waft of musky perfume, the woman breezed into the room, heading straight to her son. “Brandon! Oh, sweetie . . .”

 

Isabelle turned to face her. “Hi. I'm Dr. Izayoi,” she said with a slight smile.

 

“Denise Lincoln,” she replied absently and without taking her eyes off her son. She held her arms out, but Brandon shook his head quickly and held onto Griffin with his good hand. She offered a weak little laugh. “I see how it is . . .” Then she turned to face Isabelle. “I got here as quickly as I could,” she offered in lieu of an apology.

 

“It's fine,” Isabelle assured her. “I did do a preliminary examination, and I can tell you that his arm is definitely broken, but I'd like to get x-rays to verify the damage, if it's all right with you. It looks like a clean break, but I'd rather check to make sure there are not bone fragments or anything that could hinder the way his bone mends.”

 

She nodded. “Sure, that's fine.” She sighed and shook her head. “My husband's out of town this week on business . . . just figures, doesn't it?”

 

Isabelle smiled. “It certainly does. Is Brandon allergic to any kind of medication? To any anesthetics?”

 

“Oh, uh, no . . . At least, not that I know of. He's never really had to be on medicine before. Well, Tylenol aside . . .”

 

“Okay . . . good. You holding up all right, Brandon?” she asked with a reassuring smile.

 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I'm big.”

 

Isabelle grinned. “You certainly are.”

 

Nell strode back into the room with a wheelchair and a bright smile. “Okay, they're waiting for you. How about I take you down there?” she offered.

 

Brandon stole a glance up at Griffin. Griffin nodded once and stood up, carefully setting Brandon down in the wheelchair. “Bone pictures . . . that's pretty neat,” he mumbled.

 

Brandon's expression lit up at the approval in Griffin's voice. “Can I keep a bone picture?” he asked as Nell wheeled him out of the room.

 

Nell laughed. Isabelle didn't hear her answer.

 

“I'll, uh, I'll wait out there,” Griffin said, face flushing slightly as he headed for the door, too.

 

“Wait, Dr. Marin,” Denise called. Griffin stopped in the doorway, carefully keeping his face turned slightly; just enough to keep the woman from looking at his scars, Isabelle supposed.

 

“Sorry, ma'am,” Griffin half-mumbled, half-growled as the red in his face deepened a little more. “I can pay for it . . .”

 

Denise waved her hand as though his offer was ridiculous. “No, no! Thanks, but we've got pretty good insurance, and he's a little daredevil, anyway . . . I just wanted to say thank you for bringing him in and everything. Brandon loves Mondays, you know. He says you're his favorite teacher.”

 

`Mondays?' Isabelle thought as her eyes widened in surprise. `Then that means he does this sort of thing all the time . . .?'

 

“He's a good cub,” Griffin muttered then turned to go.

 

Denise sighed, and when Isabelle looked at her, it was to find the woman smiling despite the haggard lines creasing at the corners of her eyes. “He's a godsend, really,” she commented, dusting her hands together and heaving a tired sigh.

 

“Oh?” Isabelle asked, scrutinizing the information on the emergency report carefully.

 

“Yeah . . . they were going to close the preschool, you see: short on staff . . . Dr. Marin heard about it, and he volunteered to take the children on Mondays to teach them about nature. The kids love it.”

 

Nodding slowly, Isabelle couldn't help the warm little smile that quirked her lips. “I'll bet,” she agreed.

 

“Excuse me . . . Mrs. Lincoln? There are a few papers we need you to sign when you have a minute,” Hillary said as she breezed into the room.

 

“Oh, I can get those now,” Denise offered.

 

Isabelle nodded at Hillary and bit her lip as she watched the women hurry out of the room. She had to admit that it had surprised her to see Griffin with Brandon in his arms, and yet . . .

 

And yet, hadn't she sensed it, herself? Despite the gruff exterior, she'd known from the start. Griffin Marin was a gentle man beneath it all. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him in the beginning, and the more she learned about him, the more she wanted to learn . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“He'll be okay, right?”

 

Isabelle nodded and stole a glance at Griffin as the car idled at an intersection in the middle of Bangor. Staring at his hands, his long bangs hanging down like a veil that hid his expression from her. She resisted the urge to reach over and brush his hair out of his face, figuring that doing so would very likely get her in trouble or worse. “Sure. It was a clean break. In a few weeks, you won't even know that he'd ever broken it, in the first place.

 

Griffin grunted in response, but didn't look up. It was telling enough that he hadn't once argued with her when she'd offered to drive him home after she'd finished putting Brandon's arm in a cast.

 

“Accidents happen, you know. If they didn't, I wouldn't have a job.”

 

This time, he did look at her. Well, he scowled at her. “That's hardly amusing,” he growled.

 

She sighed. “Relax, Dr. G. Brandon will be fine; I promise.”

 

“D-D-Dr. G.?” he stammered. Isabelle didn't have to glance at him to know that he was turning a very nice shade of red. “Dr. G.?”

 

“Sure. It stands for—”

 

“I know what it stands for, girly, and I don't like it, either.”

 

She wisely hid her amusement. “What would you rather that I called you?”

 

He snorted. “Dr. Marin would suffice,” he growled.

 

“Oh, come on, now. I'm living with you, and—”

 

“Not by choice,” he mumbled.

 

“—I would think that should be more than enough for us to be on a first name basis, don't you think?”

 

He snorted but didn't answer.

 

“Anyway, you were really sweet with Brandon. I think I love you even more than I did before . . . will you be that sweet with our pups?”

 

He snorted again. “Never happen.”

 

“Oh, come now, Griffin . . . it's not that bad. After all, making the babies is a hell of a lot of fun . . .”

 

“Please,” he growled, turning his attention out the passenger-side window as his face reddened once again.

 

“No, really! Who would have thought that a grumpy Pooh-bear like you would be so patient with children?”

 

“A grumpy—what?”

 

“Pooh-bear,” Isabelle stated again. “You know . . . AA Milne's classic children's character . . .? He lived deep in the Hundred Acre Wood where Christopher Robin played . . .”

 

He opened his mouth but snapped it closed again as indignant color blossomed in his cheeks.

 

She relented lest he should decide that he'd endured enough teasing for one day. Unfortunately, she couldn't quite help the smile that just wouldn't go away, either . . . It felt so natural—so normal—simply being with him; teasing him. Somewhere deep down, he had to know it, too, didn't he?

 

`I wouldn't be so certain of that, Isabelle. It could be nothing more than wishful thinking, you know.'

 

`No . . .' Isabelle countered, casting Griffin a sidelong glance. She could only see his profile, and he didn't look quite as upset anymore. At least her methods had worked in that respect . . . `Griffin . . . he can feel it, too. I know he can.'

 

`Even if he does, he's not about to admit it,' her youkai pointed out.

 

Isabelle heaved a sigh, refusing to allow her youkai voice to put a damper on the pleasant feeling of Griffin-inspired warmth that surged through her. `Yeah, yeah . . . you'll have to eat those words eventually.'

 

`And I'd be happy to, but you know, you have your work cut out for you.'

 

`And I wouldn't have it any other way,' she decided. `After all, does anyone really appreciate anything that's just handed over on the proverbial silver platter . . .?'

 

`No, I suppose they don't.'

 

“Stop at the grocery store,” Griffin said suddenly though he didn't look at her.

 

“Grocery? All right . . . going to break down and buy some real food?” she asked, quirking her eyebrow since she'd spent the better portion of last evening complaining about the serious lack of anything non-organic in Griffin's kitchen.

 

He snorted. “Charlie needs food.”

 

“Charlie? Who's Charlie?”

 

Griffin shook his head. “Your dog.”

 

“My dog?” she echoed.

 

“Yes, your dog.”

 

She laughed. “He has a name; it's Froofie.”

 

“That's not a name,” Griffin shot back as Isabelle hung a left into the grocery store parking lot. “It's a torture device.”

 

“He likes it!” she protested.

 

“No, he doesn't. You like it, but you're not him—and you're a little demented.”

 

“Ah, so now you're channeling dogs? Impressive, Dr. G . . . Very impressive, indeed . . .”

 

He shot her a menacing glance that only served to heighten Isabelle's misplaced amusement. “Listen, you—”

 

“Okay, okay,” she giggled, waving her hand dismissively. “I'm just kidding . . . I'm sorry . . .”

 

He shot her a suspicious glance. “Somehow I don't think you are,” he complained.

 

Isabelle didn't argue it with him.

 

 

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Final Thought fromGriffin:

…Dr. G…?

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Avouchment): I do not claim any rights to InuYashaor 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~