Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ True North ❯ True North, Chapter 9 ( Chapter 9 )

True North

Chapter 9

Pairing: 2x1

Category: AU

Warning: OC kid

Gundam Wing copyright Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency. "Eien no Rhapsody" copyright Midori Saiha/Ringo Zaidan.

"The Light Before We Land" lyrics copyright the Delgados, 2002.

"There. Now, as all of you can see, many of you didn't do too well on this exam," Professor Westin said, circling one portion of the projected graph on the lecture hall's flatscreen with his laser pointer. The numbers along the bottom read in the forties to fifties.

"Fuck," Moira heard Audrey growl. "There goes /my/ GPA." Moira gulped as she eyed the exam scores. They didn't look good; the highest one was in the eighties range. Even if that was her score, that was way below how she normally scored on anything.

Professor Westin's midterm was known around Blair to be the worst exam for freshmen. One, it was impossible to study for, and two, the hit everyone took was hard to recover from. Glancing around the room, Moira noted that everyone was wearing despondent expressions. She didn't feel that great either; despite the building having a good heating system, cold tingles were pricking their way up her legs.

"Your individual scores are available on the class webpage. For those who are interested, the average was a fifty-six point five percent. There's only one outlier, with a score of eighty-five percent," he said, circling the highest score.

Audrey elbowed Moira's ribs. "I bet that's you," she said, brushing back her short black hair with her other hand.

Moira didn't say anything, shaking her head in disbelief as Professor Westin shut off the pointer with a click.

"That concludes today's class. Have a nice day, everyone," he said.

"Nice day my ass," Audrey muttered. "Now I'll have to study like crazy to make up for this. Goodbye social life, goodbye parties, it was nice knowin' ya." She slammed her laptop shut, disconnected the battery, and hoisted her bag up onto her desk.

"They weren't kidding when they said that it was the hardest exam," Moira grumbled, taking her coat from the chair and shrugging it on. "I don't want to see my score. I just don't."

Audrey was about to snap back a retort when Professor Westin came up the steps to their row of desks. "Miss Maxwell, I'd like a word with you before you go. Would you come with me into my office?"

Moira turned to Audrey, who shrugged. "Okay," she said. "Audrey, do you mind telling Dina I'll be late?"

******

Professor Westin's office was in the next building over. While the walk there was very short, both he and Moira were silent the entire way.

The office was small and cramped, with two shelves of books taking up one wall of the room. The other wall was taken up by a desk whose surface was cluttered with stacks of papers, e-books, and a desktop computer. Weak sunlight filtered in through the only window. Except for the shelves, desk and two chairs, the room was bare.

Moira didn't like where this was going, even the way the door slid open reminded her of a guillotine blade, if only going backwards.

"Please sit," Professor Westin said, gesturing to one of the chairs. Moira sat, looking around her nervously. Why would Professor Westin want to talk to her? She hadn't done anything wrong, at least not anything she /knew/ of...

"I'd like to speak with you about the exam," he said, taking off his coat and draping it over the other chair.

"What about it?" Moira asked, her gloved hands gripping her bag tightly. She felt a strand of hair tickling her nose, but her hands wouldn't move.

Professor Westin sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees, and gazed at Moira. His eyes were an intense grayish green, and the way he stared at her from the top of his glasses made them pretty damn scary.

"Your score was the outlier in the entire class," he said, then taking a deep breath. "That's the highest score I've had a student receive on that particular exam in twenty years of teaching here."

"I don't know what to say," Moira said, fighting to keep the shakiness out of her voice. Part of her was relieved that her grade wouldn't take a hit, but the other part wasn't liking the look in the professor's eyes.

"So, how did you do it?" he asked. His tone was mild, perhaps thoughtful, but Moira felt like fidgeting in her chair.

"I studied hard, since people say this is the hardest exam. That's it, I guess," Moira said, shrugging. "Unless you count me getting a good night's sleep and eating a good breakfast before I came in, then the rest was luck, y'know?" She forced a smile.

Professor Westin sat back, sighing. "I don't suppose that this `luck' would have come in the form of a copy of an exam you happened to get your hands on?" he asked.

Moira blinked. "What?"

"Don't pretend to be ignorant, Miss Maxwell. Either that, or you managed to sneak in crib notes under my nose." He took off his glasses, breathing on the lenses and then wiping them on the hem of his shirt. "There is no possible way you could have scored that high without outside help."

All Moira could do was sit there in stunned silence, mouth open in shock. He couldn't think she...

"Are you accusing me of /cheating/, Professor Westin?" she finally asked.

"There's no other way you could have scored that high," he said. "Usually, the school policy with students caught cheating on an exam is to give them an automatic fail. Here, however, you've got two options. You can take the failing grade, along with turning in the crib notes or the illegal copy of the exam you have, or," he paused meaningfully, "you can retake it tonight where I can proctor you myself. Of course, if you refuse to do both, I'll have no choice but to give you the automatic fail anyway."

Moira rose from her chair. "I'll see you in your office at five, then?"

Professor Westin nodded, as if he was expecting that to be her answer. "Try to be on time."

******

By the time she was down the hall from Professor Westin's office, Moira was livid. She couldn't /believe/ that he'd thought that she cheated on a test just because the score was too high. It was too goddamned /dumb/ to believe; how the hell would you sneak in crib notes into the classroom? Other than the optional card with all the formulae they were allowed to have, the TAs checked everyone for those sorts of things.

And as for old copies of exams...well, Moira had heard about those, but even if she wanted to buy one, the prices weren't at all reasonable.

She hadn't wanted to do the retake, really, but anything was better than an automatic fail. It didn't make it any less ridiculous, though; now she'd be home at least an hour late. Not only that, but she'd need to make time to review the material. That meant cutting lunch and two lectures. Then she remembered that she had an assignment due for one of those classes.

"Fuck. Why me?" she hissed to herself, sticking a hand in her pocket for her cell phone. She needed to call home and tell Papa that she'd be late, that she needed to take care of some business over here. Assuming things worked out all right, that's all he and Dad needed to know; if not, she'd tell them the entire story. Assuming Audrey told Dina that she'd be late, Moira still had some time.

Moira had gotten out the phone and started dialing when she heard someone ask, "Maxwell?" It was Professor Chang, the instructor for one of today's lectures. He taught theoretical physics, and while Moira had originally selected the class /just/ to get rid of the requirement she needed for graduation, it turned out to be very interesting.

"Oh, hi," Moira said, looking up from her cell phone. "Um..." she searched in her bag, "I've got today's homework with me right now. Is it all right if I give it to you now?" She found her file of assignments and opened it up.

Professor Chang frowned. "Is there a reason why you won't be able to turn it in at the beginning of today's lecture?" he asked. Moira swallowed nervously, focusing on the buttons of his shirt, not wanted to look into the Chinese man's eyes.

"I need to retake an exam," she said, her eyes taking in how pressed and clean his shirt was. "See," Moira lowered her voice, "Professor Westin thinks I cheated because of the score I got, so if I don't retake it tonight, he'll fail me."

Professor Chang shook his head in disbelief. "That's impossible. For a student like yourself, scores like that would be expected." He'd taken one look at Moira's last name on the attendance roster and had asked her about who her parents were. She'd dodged answering the question until the third or fourth week she saw him in office hours; then she'd simply given him the names, and that was that. It turned out that Professor Chang was only curious. As the term had progressed, Moira found herself respecting him a great deal; he was strict, yes, but he was also fair and extremely passionate about teaching.

"Yeah, well," Moira shrugged. "I...I need the lecture time to study and refresh my memory. I hope that's all right..." She flipped through the file, pulling out the homework assignment and giving it to Professor Chang. He took it, skimming over both sides before nodding approvingly.

"This will do," he said. "Best of luck to you on the retake. If there's time, would you please come see me afterwards? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Moira nodded. At least from Professor Chang she could tell that it wasn't likely to be bad.

"Goodbye for now, then," he said, going on his way. Moira watched his retreating back, his short ponytail going down the top of his back like a paintbrush. She took a few deep breaths, took her cell phone, and pressed "Call".

"Hey, it's me," she said. "Listen, I'm going to come home late tonight..."

******

Upon retaking the exam, Moira didn't score an eighty-five.

She scored a ninety-six.

"Well," Professor Westin said, looking extremely flustered and shocked as he handed the test paper back to Moira, "it appears that there's been a misunderstanding. You weren't cheating after all."

"No, I wasn't." Her voice was cool and calm, and she was trying her hardest to keep a smirk from appearing on her face.

"I suppose my standards for you weren't high enough; you're clearly a very brilliant student," he said, stroking his gray beard thoughtfully. "I hope we can expect great things from you in the future. /Extremely/ great things. In fact, I'd expect you to do very well in my class."

Moira had had enough. That gleam in Professor Westin's eye was beginning to seriously freak her out. "Professor Westin, I'd like both copies of the original exam and the retake for my records. Oh, and I want that retake to count as the official score."

Professor Westin boggled at her; he clearly hadn't expected her to suddenly display such confidence, and it was making him visibly uncomfortable. "C-certainly, Miss Maxwell," he stammered.

It didn't take very long for him to make the copies, as his printer also had a built-in scanner and copier. In less than a minute, Moira had both of them in her hands, still warm. With a short nod, she left Professor Westin's office, only to see Professor Chang outside.

"Done already?" he asked, raising both eyebrows. "I suppose you did well?"

Moira nodded, grinning. "Take a look," she said, handing the retake to Professor Chang as they headed down to his office.

"You did better? That's not surprising. You were already familiar with the material during the first time you took the exam," he said. "Still, congratulations."

Moira smiled, putting the exam copies in her bag. "Thanks. You wanted to see me about something?"

"Yes, I did," Professor Chang said. "I've been observing your work over this term, and as expected, it's very well done. Your parents must be proud."

Moira made a noncommittal noise. For her, it was normal. For Dad, it was normal. For Papa, well, she didn't know.

"I talked to Dr. Solotski, your supervisor, and she's in agreement with me. Therefore," he opened the door to his office, "I'd like to offer you a position as a research assistant with a project I'm doing."

Moira's eyes widened. "Really?"

"It's theoretical work, and I realize it's not the sort of thing most students want to do, but this is funded by the government, and unlike applied physics, you would get credit for all the research you do," he said, sitting down at his desk. "I've got some paperwork here that goes into further detail, and while I'd be very pleased if you decided to join us, there's no rush to make a decision right away."

"When would this be?" Moira asked. There wasn't really any way she could do it now; her schedule was insane enough as is, and didn't look like it'd be letting up any time soon.

"During the summer. It'd start sometime in June," Professor Chang said, handing her the paperwork as he stood up. "This explains the project, and it has some formalities that you need to go over with your parents, since you're still a minor." He turned to the shelf next to the desk and took out a large teacup, along with a bag of oolong tea. Moira was familiar with this; he would perform this ritual every time she came to see him.

"I'll do it." Moira couldn't believe this was happening. "I'll do it for sure."

Professor Chang didn't turn around, but instead took out a pinch of tea leaves from the bag and dropped them inside. "Very well. Get the paperwork back to me as soon as you can, and we'll get you started."

"Terrific! I'll get it back to you the next time we have class. Thanks so much!" Moira squealed. She could have hugged the man, she was so happy.

"You're welcome," Professor Chang said. "But for now, go home. You could use the rest."

As soon as Moira left the building, though, she was whooping for joy. She'd have turned cartwheels outside if Sabrina and Ethan hadn't been there waiting for her, wondering why she was so damn happy.

******

Ethan raised his mug in the air. "This deserves a toast," he said. "I can't believe Westin did that to you, Moira, but it's real awesome that you got an even higher score. Cheers!"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Sabrina cried. "I don't have enough of this left!" She shook her glass emphatically at Moira and Ethan; it only held a half-inch of her drink amongst all the melting ice inside. Moira wondered how Sabrina could drink an Italian soda when there was still snow on the ground outside.

Ethan shook his head, his loose sandy bangs threatening to dip themselves into his hot chocolate. "That's enough to me. C'mon. Cheers!" he yelled, and he and Moira clinked their mugs together. The coffee she'd ordered was still hot, and it burned her throat as she drank it down. She didn't care that people in the café were staring at the three of them; hell, they should have been staring just from the ear-to-ear grin she had.

Sabrina sipped daintly at what was left of her drink. "You do realize that now with a ninety-six, you've killed any chance of a curve for us, right?" The warm light inside the café made her red hair shine a dark copper and her freckles stood out on her pale face like grains of cinnamon. "Well, not like the eighty-five wouldn't have done it either," she said, putting one hand behind her neck and spinning the empty glass with the other.

Ethan laughed, slinging an arm around Moira's shoulders and pulling her close. "Aw, Sabrina, don't get all mad at her. Westin's an asshole, you know that."

"Easy for you to say," Sabrina grumbled. She stopped the glass, only to start spinning it again. "You're not in his lecture anymore. If it wasn't for Craig's notes, I'd have to drop it by now."

The glass wobbled dangerously close to the edge of the table, but Sabrina caught it in time.

"Hey, could you stop that?" Moira asked. "That's freaking me out."

Sabrina stuck out her tongue. "Make me," she said. "Anyway, that reminds me. We need to plan another date soon, `cause it's our three-month anniversary!" The last three words were practically trilled out, with a hand flung out for emphasis. Sabrina's knuckles collided with the glass and sent it off the table, where it crashed and broke on the floor.

"Ah, shit!" the other girl snapped. Moira only sighed, rolling her eyes. Biting back an "I /told/ you so" on the tip of her tongue, she pulled away from Ethan, got up from her seat, and knelt down. "Here, I'll help you clean it up."

The glass had shattered, Moira could see that much. Except for the bottom, the rest of it lay in pieces no bigger than her thumb at most. This was going to take a while to get off the floor.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Sabrina said hurriedly, also kneeling down and batting her scarf out of the way.

"Don't worry about it. It'll be faster this way." Moira spotted a bigger shard near her knee and reached over to pick it up. One down, she thought, putting it on the table. They'd find some way to get it all to the garbage later. She went to pick up the bottom and then cried out as she felt a sharp, sudden pain stab her right wrist.

"Oh, God, did you cut yourself?" Sabrina asked, concerned.

Moira held up her right wrist. "I think so. How's it loo-" Her sentence was cut off by an arc of blood spurting out onto the floor.

"Aw, fuck," she muttered. Sabrina turned even paler and clutched her stomach, as two more spurts of blood followed, spraying the ground with bright red. Moira grabbed her wrist with her other hand to stop the bleeding, but she could feel more of it coming through her fingers.

"Holy shit!" Ethan yelled, jumping up from his chair. "I'm going to go find some paper towels for you," he called back to Moira as he ran off.

People were gathering around Moira and Sabrina now, looking on curiously, or shouting out more instructions as to what Moira should do to stop the bleeding, such as raising her arm over her head to slow the circulation.

There was some jerk who was actually taking a picture with his cell phone, but unfortunately Moira had other things to worry about, as there was now a puddle of blood on the floor despite her best efforts.

"Out of the way, everybody." The crowd parted instantly; the speaker had a voice that was quiet, but held a tremendous amount of force. She heard footsteps, and then someone knelt down beside her.

"Take your hand off," he said. Moira obeyed, grimacing; blood was everywhere on her arm, staining the sleeve of her sweater, and her other hand was sticky with it. She felt a towel being wrapped around her wrist.

"Okay, now hold onto that for me." Looking over her shoulder, Moira saw that the speaker worked at the café; he had the trademark black apron that all of the baristas wore at the counter. Half of his face was obscured by a mop of red-brown hair. She wrapped her good hand around the towel; the cut still hurt a /lot/, but not as much with something around it.

"Good. Come on. I'm taking you to the hospital," he said. His voice felt reassuring; it was quiet, but it also had a control that made Moira feel calm on the inside, telling her everything would be taken care of.

The next thing she knew, the guy had thrown her coat over her shoulders, taken her bag, and was now helping her up and guiding her towards the exit.

"Tell Ethan what happened," Moira said to Sabrina, who was still huddled over herself on the floor.

"Hey, hey! What're you doing, Trowa? Your shift's not over yet!" someone shrieked.

"I'm taking this girl to the hospital. Just tell Matt what happened, okay? I think he'll understand." And with that, he hustled Moira out the door and into the cold February evening.

******

One hour later, Moira felt worse. That was to say, she felt like she'd been in the mother of all bar fights and tossed out through a third-story window, bouncing five times on the road before getting run over by an eighteen-wheel truck.

Well, her arm felt pretty good, but that was because of the local anesthetic they'd injected before gluing the cut together with the liquid stitches. "Pretty good" in this case meant totally numb. She gave it yet another whack against the car door. Nope. Didn't feel anything.

"Don't do that," Trowa said, flicking on the turn signal. "It's not going to help your arm."

The hospital visit had been quick, but that was probably to be expected-the nurses took one look at her wrist and the blood-spotted towel and had all but dragged her into an examination room by the scruff of her neck. They sent her back to the waiting room, all patched up, with a bottle of iron pills and firm instructions to take the next few days off.

"Sorry," Moira said, slouching down in the car seat. Trowa had offered to drive her back home, and she'd accepted; after all, she wasn't in any condition to ride her scooter back home. With the lock on it that was keyed to her fingerprints, though, it'd be fine until she came back.

If only the nurses had given her something for her head; it /hurt/. Not like the dull headaches she'd get occasionally, but sharp, slicing pain through her temples like razors underneath her skin. She was very close to pounding her head against the window just so she wouldn't have to feel it, but then she'd feel the turns in the car, and that wasn't good either, because she'd barely been able to walk unassisted out of the hospital. Trowa had taken her arm and guided her out after seeing her take a few steps by herself, despite her protests.

"You holding up okay?" Trowa asked, his one visible green eye flicking upward towards the rearview mirror. "We're almost there," he said, still in that calm, controlled voice.

And they were. Moira could see the familiar sign that was at the beginning of her street. A minute later, Trowa was pulling up onto the driveway.

Fumbling for her bag and the small bottle of pills, she unbuckled her seat belt, opened the car door and gingerly stepped outside. "Thanks a lot for driving me home," she said to Trowa, inwardly grimacing at how her voice sounded. It was all raspy, like she'd been screaming for hours on end.

"Can you make it back by yourself? Do you need me to walk you up to the porch?" Trowa asked. Moira shook her head.

"Nah, don't worry about it. I'm good," she replied, grinning weakly. "You've done a lot for me today. Thanks again."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the young man's face. "It's not a big deal. My shift's over anyway, so I better get home myself right now," he said.

"You should get going, then."

Trowa nodded. "Take care," he said. Moira waved at him weakly, shut the car door, and then staggered towards her house. The chirp of the handprint recognition lock made another bolt of pain crack across her head, bringing her to her knees as soon as she stumbled inside.

Make it /stop/, she thought, clutching her head. She'd tear off her scalp if she could right now, it was that bad.

Instead, she crumpled to the floor as another searing pain tore its way through and everything went black.

******

When Moira finally opened her eyes, it was morning, an especially dreary one, with its trademark overcast gray sky greeting her from the window. Better than sunshine at any rate; considering that she still felt pretty shitty, the rays would have been painfully dazzling.

The headache had dulled to a pounding sensation, felt mostly in the temples. She was on the living room couch--that much she could see--but why she was there she didn't know. The last thing she remembered was passing out in the foyer. She reached into the pocket of her jeans for her cell phone, pulling it out from underneath the quilt that covered her-which was from her own bed, she could see the white and silver stars-and blinked. The screen's black numbers read 9:17 A.M.

Trowa had dropped her off around eight last night, which meant that she'd been conked out for a good thirteen hours. That explained why her right arm was throbbing from getting out the cell; the drugs had worn off. While the skin was clean and bandaged, her shirt wasn't; the area all the way up the forearm was a dirty brick red.

She needed a shower. And a change of clothes. Then pills, preferably anything that would kill the headache and the pain in her arm. And water, lots of it, because her throat felt so dry she half expected sand to come pouring out. Grabbing hold of the couch's armrest, Moira swung her legs over the edge and sat up, only to have everything go black again for a few seconds, followed by the worst spinning sensation.

If this was what a hangover was like, the role of designated driver looked really good right now, Moira thought, walking unsteadily towards the stairs and licking her lips to moisten them. After all of this, she was going to bed and not moving until she felt normal again.

Given that she couldn't even walk in a straight line after sleeping for so long, normal was going to take a while.

******

"I go out of the house for five minutes and you're already overdoing it," Papa grumbled. He'd found Moira hanging onto the bathroom countertop for dear life as she was shaking out the pills for her headache after her shower.

"I thought I'd feel better with a shower," she muttered. "I can walk by myself. You don't have to carry me. Why are we going back to the living room? I thought I should be in bed."

That only earned a scowl from Papa. "You were /weaving/," he said. "We put you to bed last night, but I took you downstairs because it's easier to keep watch, or so I thought until you went to take a shower as soon as I was gone."

"I'm tired now. And I'm cold."

"Good. Then I can put you on the couch and not worry about you pulling anything like this for the next few hours," he said briskly, entering the living room.

"You're lucky I didn't try to go after the Vicodin," Moira said, yawning.

Papa glared at her as he lowered her down onto the couch. "That thins your blood, so you'd be worse off," he said dryly. "Try to get some rest. When you're up, I want to talk to you about what happened last night."

Moira was too exhausted to protest. Pulling the quilt over her head, she moaned and turned on her side to face the couch. Of course, Papa immediately yanked it down, sharply saying something about suffocation, but by then she was already hurtling towards sleep.

******

This time, when Moira woke up, she felt better, though nowhere close to fully functional. The headache had disappeared and the pain in her wrist had gone down some, though her hands still felt like blocks of ice. Putting on two shirts and a cardigan hadn't helped things. She fished into her jeans pocket again-there hadn't been any need to toss them into the wash, unlike her shirt-and pulled out her Seashell. There had to be an mp3 stick still in there; she'd listened to music to keep herself calm while studying yesterday in the library.

The Seashell whirred to life, and in a few seconds Moira heard a swell of a full string orchestra, followed by a choir. Without really thinking about it, she started to sing along.

"In cases such as these I'd like a hand..." The song made her feel, well, less rotten. It mellowed her out with its slow pace and steady drum beats. Moira closed her eyes, lips still moving, getting lost within the music, letting it coil around her and keep her safe. She'd picked up the stick after hearing a sample on the Internet, and even though it was old, old music, there was something so dreamy and calm about this song-called "The Light Before We Land"-that was able to smooth out any ruffled emotions she'd had. Few songs were able to do that.

"Before we let euphoria convince us we are free...remind us how we used to feel before when life was real..." A wordless note, one that sounded like a sigh more than anything else, slid through effortlessly like a water through a riverbed.

She heard Papa step into the living room and set something down on the coffee table, but still kept singing, "let me stay a while...soak it in a while...if we can hold on we can fix what is wrong..."

A hand was on her shoulder, shaking her gently. "Sit up. You need to drink something," Papa said. Before Moira could even lift her head, though, Papa had put an arm under her shoulders and hoisted her up to a sitting position. Extra weight settled on the couch, and she opened her eyes to see that Papa had taken a seat next to her and was reaching out for two glasses of white cranberry juice.

"Here." He offered her a glass, taking the other for himself. "Sip it. No gulps. You haven't had anything since you came home last night, so you need to be careful."

Nodding in thanks, Moira took the glass and sipped. The tartness of the liquid made her pucker her lips. White cranberry was her favorite; other juices were all right, but the first juice she'd drunk was this one, and Dad bought it often; clear juice didn't leave stains on clothing.

Odd that Papa would know she liked it. There hadn't been any in the fridge this week; he must have stepped out and gotten some while she'd been napping. She took another sip.

"So I guess you want to know what happened," she said casually. "Otherwise you wouldn't have poured another glass for yourself and sat down here."

Papa didn't answer, but simply turned his head towards her. Moira took it as a sign to continue.

"The reason I called and said that I'd be late was because I needed to retake a midterm," she began. "Long story short: the prof didn't believe I could score that high when everyone else flunked, and accused me of cheating."

"You didn't," Papa said. It wasn't a question. Moira nodded sagely.

"That's right. No evidence of that except for an eighty-five percent." She took a bigger sip; the juice felt good going down. "So I wound up skipping classes to study and did the damn retake. I got a /ninety-six/. I can't believe it, but that's what happened."

Papa shrugged, taking a drink from his glass. "I can. You knew the material before you went in the first time. Since you studied it again, you knew it better, that's all."

Moira growled. "That showed him. He tried to backpedal, but it was /pathetic/. I could have strangled him. Well, no. I'd pour sour milk under the door of his cramped, dark, soulless office for starters, though. Dunno about the rest, but it'd be pretty nasty. Good idea, no?"

Papa looked mildly shocked. "You wouldn't.

"Three years ago? I would." Moira nodded, a sly grin creeping over her face. "Don't look so freaked out. I glued someone's hands to his butt in fourth grade. Oh, I got a detention and Dad grounded me, but that felt /good/."

"You're not going to do anything about it, are you?" Papa asked.

Moira shook her head, tossing back a few strands of hair. "No. That brings us to what happened next; one of the professors that's /not/ a total dick offered me a research assistant position." She paused; talking for so long was beginning to make her head spin again. A few deep breaths and she felt steadier.

"What kind of research?" Papa's hand was on the side of her head, guiding it down to his shoulder. He'd probably seen her swaying or something; Moira hadn't felt it, but who knew?

"Theoretical stuff," she murmured. The room wasn't spinning so much now that she had something to lean on. "It's kinda boring, but he said I'd get credit, and it's government funded, so it's important. He told me not to make a decision, and that you and Dad needed to take a look."

Papa nodded. "You should do it. Everyone needs theoretical work somewhere in their background." He'd started stroking her hair, weaving his fingers through it, barely touching the back of her neck. "When you're feeling better, let Duo and I look at what your professor gave you."

"Sure." Moira drank deeply this time; she'd had enough of small sips, and dammit, she was thirsty. "Anyway," she said, once she'd drained her glass, "I ran into two of my friends and we decided to go out for a coffee to celebrate. One of `em kept spinning her glass and it fell off the table's edge and broke. That's how I got this," she waved her bandaged wrist slightly; it hurt, but not as badly as before her nap. "I was helping her pick them up, and one of the shards gouged me."

Papa took away her glass before putting his own down and reaching for her hand. "I know. I examined it this morning. You're lucky you didn't lose /too/ much blood." His skin felt unusually warm and dry against her own. In fact, /all/ of him felt warm in such a way that Moira immediately felt comfortable, whereas lying under a quilt took a while for that to happen.

"You're so warm," she murmured. His fingers closed around her own and squeezed gently.

"It's the blood loss. You'll feel cold for a couple days," he said, moving his thumb up and down the pads of her fingers. "I think you'll be back to normal in a week."

Moira groaned. "But I've got school!"

"You can go back to school after the weekend, but you need to take it easy for a few days after that. It could have been worse." The last sentence was spoken matter-of-factly, and Moira was glad for that.

"The nurses said I lost at least half a pint."

"I believe it." Papa let go of her hand for a moment, putting it next to hers, palm facing both of them. "Look at that. See how pale your hand is compared to mine?"

Moira blinked. The difference in their skin tones wasn't that much, normally. But here, they were like night and day; her hand looked off-white next to Papa's.

"Your face looks worse," he said, still in that matter-of-fact tone.

"How bad?"

Eyes darting to her face, he tapped the back of her jaw lightly, running down it to her chin. "It's bluish-white. Almost like paper. And no, you can't go see for yourself in the mirror. You wouldn't like it, and the rise in blood pressure would slow your recovery."

He paused, eyebrows drawing together and tightening his mouth as if he was trying to hold something back. Finally, he said, "You were really lucky. If you hadn't gotten help sooner, you might have died."

"I didn't mean to worry you," Moira said apologetically. She was getting sleepy again, even though she'd just woken up from a nap. The next time Sabrina even thought about spinning a glass...

Papa pulled her in closer, encircling her in both of his arms briefly, before just resting his chin on top of her head. "It's okay. It could have happened to anyone." The warm soapy smell he had was making Moira even sleepier. It was a struggle to keep her eyes open just a crack, but she was afraid that if she fell asleep, Papa would leave.

"Could you just stay here?" she asked.

Papa didn't answer. Instead, she felt his hand move until it rested between her shoulderblades, the fingers spreading outwards, as if it was anchoring itself onto her back.

That was all she needed, and she allowed herself to drift off, barely aware of Papa rubbing that area in small side-to-side strokes.

******

"...so scary. My God, she looks like a corpse."

"Quiet, Duo. You'll wake her up."

Too late for that, Moira thought, awareness rushing back into her. Dad was home, so it had to be five thirty at the earliest. But before she could say that she was already up, Papa said, "She's spent more time asleep than awake today."

She heard Dad make an ambivalent noise. "That's normal. You get any fluids in her?"

"Some juice. I think she had some water before that." He patted Moira's elbow. "I want her to drink more before she goes to bed tonight."

Dad chuckled, and she heard him kneel down next to the couch. "Looks like you don't have to worry about not getting along with her," he whispered. "Check it out; she's draped across your lap."

"You think so? I put her there because she was straining my neck."

Moira felt Dad poking her head. "Looks pretty comfortable."

"Don't do that," Papa grumbled. A soft slap, and Dad's hand was swatted away, but all he did was laugh.

"Boy, Heero. I know there's not much age difference between you two, but when I came in here, it was real easy to tell who was the parent and who was the kid. I don't know how to really say it, but..." Dad fell silent.

Papa sighed. "My parents died when I was seven, so I wouldn't know." He started to lightly scratch Moira's nape. "I feel bad she had to go through something similar."

Moira wanted to speak up, to say, "No, it really wasn't as bad as you thought," but all she could do was lay there paralyzed. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't open her eyes for love or money.

Dad snorted. "I think she made it through okay, if you ask me. She's a happy kid, you know. Well, except for the crazy scrapes she got in, then she was downright evil. I hope she's grown out of them by now." A low rumble emanated from his direction.

"Ho boy," Dad said. "Too bad I don't feel like cooking tonight. I think my alternate's knocked out of commission here."

At that, Moira was finally able to open her eyes. There was Dad, off to the side, squatting at Papa's knees. Noticing she was awake, Dad's expression softened.

"How's my baby holding up?" he asked, ruffling her bangs. His hands, like Papa's, were also very warm to the touch.

"I think I'll live," she croaked dryly. "And I'm hungry." Dad grinned, holding both hands up in surrender.

"Okay, okay. I guess I'll go order Vietnamese right now," he said. "The usual, `cept for you, young lady, extra beef on your pho." He got up, stretching both arms.

"I get the iced coffee?" Moira asked hopefully.

"Decaf," Dad shot back as he left the room. "You need the fluid, and it's better if you keep resting."

"Better `n nothin', I guess," she muttered. Her condition hadn't really gone up that much; now, it was like before, minus getting hit with a truck and bouncing on the pavement. "Man, I don't feel so good."

"It's all right if you rest some more," Papa said. "You need to anyway." His hand moved upwards to brush out her hair, which had gotten tangled while she'd been sleeping.

Moira flipped over a quarter-turn so she was facing him. "You sure?" He had to have been sitting there forever. She couldn't sit that still for so long; she fidgeted in her seat after about forty-five minutes.

"It's not a problem." Papa ran his fingers down her cheek. "Go back to sleep."

"All right," she said, and closed her eyes again.