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.

Thanks to Diamroyal for beta-reading!

"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!" Her glass 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! With Craig-Craig!" 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 gonna go
find some paper towels," 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 sweater 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.

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.