A/N- Special thanks need to go out to TCM for his spectacular job of beta reading. He's doing a great job. My muse of so many years has bitten the dust… let us have a moment of silence for S0x. He will be sorely missed. However, I was recently introduced to my new muse, this chapter is Calliope's debut, please be gentle with her… it's her first fic.
Additional thank need to everyone for their wonderful feedback, especially to the person who left me the proper Arabic terms. The corrections will be made to the previous chapters. Anyone who is interested in joining my mailing list is welcome to follow the link in my profile.
I adore feedback, critical and flattering are equally nice. A little note to Mint Maxwell, I'd like to talk with you if you'd care to e-mail me. My address can be found on my profile. Again, I hope you enjoy the fic, thank you for reading.
Disclaimer- Not mine, Don't sue, Got nothing.
Small Packages
Chapter 7
Trowa stretched as he woke, the joints in his back snapping deliciously. He burrowed his face further into the pillow until he heard the radio next to his head crackle to life. "Papa? Are you up yet?" The whisper was amplified, obviously due to Quatre turning the volume up. Trowa groaned and rolled over, glancing at the clock. 7:00 am was an ungodly hour to be up, especially when he didn't have to go to work. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a fist and grasped the radio, yawning widely. His entire body shook in it's effort to revive itself from his groggy state.
"I'm here." He spoke into the handheld unit as he pushed himself up in the bed. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, sir. I need help with my shoes."
"Why?" He sighed heavily as he released the talk button.
Megan's tinny voice came back to him. "I tried to tie 'em but they got all tangled up and now I can't move."
Trowa frowned. "Okay. I'll be right there." He tossed the covers back and blinked blearily. How on earth had he fathered a morning person?
He left the warmth of his bed and padded barefoot across the hall to where Megan's door stood open. She sat in a heap in the plush carpeted floor, little feet extended as she helplessly tugged at the offending shoestrings. Trowa knelt in front of her, studying the knots. "You'd make Duo proud with these knots, little bit." The endearment slipped off his tongue unbidden.
She grinned unrelentingly and stopped squirming as he diligently worked to free the knots. He cursed beneath his breath. When he glanced up, her mouth formed a silent "o" of surprise. She grinned mischievously. "That's not a nice damn word."
It was Trowa's turned to stare in shock. He chuckled vaguely before catching himself and shaking his head. "Only grownups should say that word. It's not nice for little girls to use."
"But you said it." She replied matter-of-factly.
"I know but you don't have to do what I do… " He paused, this line of thinking sounding wrong even to him. "You're right. I won't say it again. I'm sorry."
She nodded succinctly. He at last untangled the mass of string and carefully tied the two shoes separate from one another, securing them in a double bow to prevent a repeat event. "I'll untie them when you get ready to take them off." He sat back on his heels and regarded his daughter. She'd evidently dressed herself.
As though sensing his perusal of her attire, she grinned proudly. "I picked it out myself! Do you like it, Papa?"
Vivid… that was the only word for it. The glaringly bright ensemble consisted of a candy apple red skirt and a fuchsia tank top that declared Megan to be a "Superstar". The mustard yellow socks were paired with neon green shoes that were ugly enough to make Heero do a double take. He cleared his throat and nodded. "It's… colorful."
Megan nodded as though that settled everything. "Will you braid my hair?" She extended a wide-tooth comb to him.
Trowa accepted it carefully and nodded. He'd never braided anyone's hair before. Only the tails of the horses at the circus. Surely this couldn't be much different. Gingerly, he began to run the comb through the strands of hair. He reached a tangle and tugged gently. She winced. "You're really bad at this."
Trowa froze in the face of the blatant criticism. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. A faraway voice called from the entryway a floor below. Trowa merely stood stock-still. He had no clue how to deal with this. He carefully extracted the comb from the tangled mass and reached for the ponytail holder that lay on the vanity. "How about a ponytail?"
"I want a braid." She stated stubbornly.
He felt his heart sinking. "I don't know how to braid." He admitted the defeat softly.
"TROWA! Where the hell are you, man?" Duo's voice preceded the footsteps that pounded up the stairs. Relief flooded through Trowa as he glanced to the door. "In here, Duo."
"Hey, man!" The American halted in the doorway, face slightly flushed from running. He was grinning maniacally. The expression faded into one of confusion as he spotted Megan. "Hello."
"Hi!" Megan chirped happily. "Who are you?"
"I'm Duo." He answered in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "Who are you?"
"My name is Megan Noelle Hanahan." She returned promptly. "You have a braid… will you braid my hair since Papa doesn't know how?"
Trowa could feel his face flaming as amethyst eyes flickered to him in shock. He lowered his eyes and stepped away from Megan, sinking onto the unmade bed. When he raised his gaze again, Duo was still staring. His friend stepped towards him and wordlessly took the hair band and comb from him. Trowa watched carefully as Duo made quick work of the thick curls, taming them with a little water from the squirt bottle on the vanity and combing through them in small sections. The braid was short, stopping between Megan's shoulder blades. Duo stepped back to survey his work. He stood in silence until Trowa spoke in a quiet voice. "Megan, go ask Salina to give you some breakfast."
"Yes, Sir." She darted forward and rose on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek before grinning at Duo. "Thank you for braiding my hair, Mr. Duo. Maybe you can teach my Papa."
Duo nodded mutely. Megan scampered from the room, calling for Salina as she went down the front staircase. The two men remained silent until Trowa spoke. "I have a daughter, Duo."
"So I gathered." Duo voice lacked inflection. Gone was his usually boisterous teasing and baiting. Instead he fell silent once more. He moved to the vanity and grabbed the stool, setting it in front of Trowa and taking a seat.
Trowa searched for the words. "She is… was, the daughter of Emily Hanahan."
"The chick that offed herself?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I…" He paused, seeking the right words. "Emily and I were involved a few years ago. It was before Quatre and I were ever together. It was a short-lived fling. She wanted to get serious and I didn't. I left her the very day she found out she was pregnant. And she never told me. Until yesterday I had no idea Megan even existed and now I'm suddenly supposed to be a father."
"It'll come to you." Duo leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. "You have forever to learn."
Trowa snorted. "I don't know about that."
"What do you mean?" Once again, Duo's voice was carefully neutral.
"I haven't even decided to keep her or not. I haven't thought that far yet. I'm still reeling from all of this." His voice held a thread of frustration.
Duo's façade of calm crumbled as he spoke in disbelief. "You're not seriously thinking about getting rid of her."
Trowa's eyes snapped to his friend. "Not serious? Of course I'm serious. What do I know about kids."
"You were one once." Duo retorted sharply. "Given the kind of childhood you had, the kind that both of us had, you know how much it hurts to grow up knowing that somewhere out there, there's someone who may or may not have loved you. Not knowing whether or not you were wanted sure as hell makes a difference in a person, Trowa. You can't just throw her away."
"I'm not throwing her away. I haven't decided yet. And that's exactly my point. I didn't have a childhood, and because of that I don't know the first thing about what to do." Trowa's voice cracked slightly, but he barreled on. "It breaks my heart to think that I can't give her what she needs because I should be able to. I'm her father and I don't know if I can be what she needs, Duo. I mean, for Christ's sake I couldn't even comb her hair without hurting her."
The braided man's face smoothed out into a purposeful expression. "So you'll learn. You saw me use the water and do a small section. You learned from that. You won't hurt her again. See, it's not so hard. She's so little, dude. I know you're probably afraid you're going to break her or something. But you won't I promise. As long as she knows she's loved everything will be okay in the end. That's what I remember most about my childhood. How bad it felt when I lost the first people I ever loved and how alone I felt after that. She's lost someone who's been there from day one, and now she's about to lose the only family she has left." Duo spoke seriously, his tone soft yet unrelenting.
Trowa sighed heavily and scrubbed at his eyes. "Listen, Duo. I really can't deal with you on your soap box right now. Can I at least have some coffee first?"
"I have a better idea." His friend replied. "Go have a shower and get dressed and we'll go out for breakfast. It's been a while since we've talked. I'll call Wufei and Heero and have them meet us since they don't have to be in until late shift today."
Duo's tone brooked no argument. Trowa wearily rose from the bed and nodded, padding towards the door. "Have coffee ready for me when I get downstairs." He gave the order with a gentle snort as he suppressed a yawn.
"Will do. I don't really feel like dying just yet. I know better than to really fuck with you till you've had coffee."
Une tapped her fingers on the desk absently. The paperwork for the discharge of Trowa Barton sat open before her. She held a pen loosely between her fingers and grimaced. Barton had a problem, one that he needed to address before he would be fit for duty. He had quit in such a temper that she'd immediately begun processing the papers for his removal from the force. However when they'd arrived on her desk this morning she'd hesitated. Despite his outburst and irrational behavior since the death of the suspect a week prior, his record was otherwise impeccable.
He took orders well and was an invaluable asset as a leader of his field team. His work ethic and professional manner were unparalleled with the exception of the other former Gundam pilots. He was almost clinical in his treatment of missions, his success rate higher than anyone, even Yuy. His body count was lower than anyone's save for Yuy as well. The Japanese man had taken a vow never to kill again and to everyone's surprise his field record supported that vow. Barton however did not hesitate to do what needed to be done. Maxwell would kill anything that moved and didn't wear a Preventer's badge.
Une shook her head as though to clear it. With a muttered curse she dropped the pen and snapped the folder shut, shoving the papers into a desk drawer unsigned. Time was not a factor in his discharge. Perhaps he would come around after a few days to think things through. Barton was not irrational, not normally. The connection between himself and the deceased woman must have run deeper. There was no other explanation for it. She'd listened to the tape of the interrogation, heard the affection in the woman's voice.
The tone was almost undetectable as the woman had spoken to him. Barton's responses were nothing less than what she would expect from one of her top level officers. What had gone wrong? Why had the woman committed suicide when she'd committed crimes that were minor enough that her sentence would have been incarceration for a few months at the worst. Une reached for the phone and dialed the extension she wanted from memory.
"Yuy." The Japanese man's face filled the screen, though his gaze was averted to something on his desk in front of him.
Une spoke softly, her voice betraying nothing of her confusion. "Yuy, have you received the coroner's report on the suicide of the Hanahan woman?"
Odd blue eyes flicked to the screen. He frowned ever so minutely. "It came in this morning. Cause of death was cyanide poisoning. Aside from the cancer, there was nothing amiss."
"Cancer? Why wasn't I told about this?" Her tone sharpened.
He did not so much as flinch. "Because we didn't know about it until the report was submitted for the file."
"What kind of cancer?"
"Just a minute." He leaned out of the picture. A few seconds later she heard the rustling of paper on his end. "Pancreatic cancer. She was in the last stages. The medical examiner noted that the deceased had only a few weeks left to live at the most. Her tox screens showed no evidence of radiation or chemotherapy drugs."
"I see." She gritted her teeth.
"Anything else?" He asked patiently.
Une shook her head. "No. Thank you." She disconnected and quickly dialed Sally's extension.
The blonde woman answered with a perky grin. "Lady Une! You don't usually call me. What can I do for you?"
"I need to know how a patient with pancreatic cancer can have no traces of medication for treatment in their blood."
Sally appeared perplexed. "Well, it depends. Pancreatic cancer is a very fast illness. The patient usually displays no symptoms until it's too late to be successfully treated. Sometimes the person with the illness chooses to cease treatment to improve the quality of the time they have left. Or their doctor could have agreed with them that treatment was not going to help and forgone it altogether. Suicide rates for that type of disease are astronomical. Some people don't want to deal with the physical pain or the side effects of the pain medication and take their own lives before the end comes."
Une nodded, pondering Sally's words carefully. "So suicide is a common method of escaping the reality of what's wrong." She raised her eyes from her desk. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Po."
"Of course. Have a good day."
"You too." Une disconnected the call and pushed her chair from her desk. She reached for her cover (1) and resolutely tucked it under her arm. She needed a break. And right now seemed a very good time for it. She needed some time to digest this information and work out the connections. As she exited her office, she spoke brusquely to the young male secretary. "Cancel the 9 o'clock staff meeting. Something's come up. I can be reached on my cell."
The young man didn't have a chance to respond as she strode purposefully towards the elevator.
(1) A cover is the military term for the hat that is a requirement for a uniform when not indoors.