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with a chance of change
Moira is a creature of habit and routine.
On Tuesday nights, she usually comes home from work and sets her stuff down and watches late night food competition shows until she winds down. She manages to drag herself to bed more often than she falls asleep on the couch, but as long as she gets sleep, it doesn’t matter.
After elections, that becomes skewed to her throwing her stuff down and grumbling to herself about continued bigotry and small faults of her coworkers that only bother her when she’s a few weeks out from her two week vacation.
This routine is interrupted by the sight of Erik on her couch.
She stares at him.
He stares at her, an eyebrow raised. She wonders how much of her ranting he heard. "I brought scotch," he tells her.
"I could kiss you," she tells him.
"Please don't," he says, mildly, before turning his attention back to the TV. He's watching another news show, and Moira wants to recoil. Enough news. No more news.
She flops over on the remaining space of the couch. "Please change the channel.”
He looks down at her, mouth pressed thin, and for a moment Moira thinks there is going to be an Argument about it. But he acquiesces, and turns over to some terrible action-flick. A moment later, there's two glasses of scotch hovering in front of the couch – buying those tumblers with a metal base had been one of the best investments she had made during their last year of grad school.
Moira takes the closer one out of the air, and knocks it back at once.
Erik sips at his. He had called her a plebeian once, the first time he had seen her do it. Only at Charles’s affront had he apologized, but Moira knows that he’s likely thinking similar thoughts now.
But, because Erik is only a raging asshole most of the time, Moira’s glass tugs out of her fingers. She tilts her head back to watch the glass float back to the kitchen, and watch as a piece of metal – is that one of her forks? – wrapped around the neck of the bottle tips it down, pouring out another splash. The glass floats back over to her.
"Thank you," Moira says, as she takes the glass again. This time, she takes a sip.
Erik just nods, seeming faintly pleased. A few minutes pass in amiable silence before he turns the volume down low, and turns to look at her. "You had a good show tonight."
Moira blinks. Usually her show is too moderate for his tastes. "Thank you," she says, and it comes out distant and surprised.
"It was a good show, but," he starts, and Moira fights to keep from rolling her eyes, "you look tired."
Moira blinks again. She fights to keep from asking if he's okay. She fights to keep from laughing. It’s been a rough month. She’s been praised for her coverage of the Trask story, but what Trask did was so wrong, it’s wearing her down more and more as she follows the fall-out. And then elections, and now Frost is appealing her prison sentence… Erik came to her in a moment of vulnerability, after she first broke the story on Trask. After years of stony silence or thunderous yelling matches, they’ve entered an uneasy truce the past week. He deserves the truth. And so she tells him, "That's because I am tired."
His gaze softens, and she knows he understands. A few moments of pondering, then he asks, "Have you thought about taking a day off?"
“Of course.” She takes a bigger sip of the scotch. "But it draws more attention when I step down for a night than when I just grin and bear it. I've had far too much scrutiny lately, I just want to get through these next few weeks and then take my next two weeks off."
"Georgia?"
"Yep. Week in Marthasville with my mom, then a week in Savannah on my own. Warm weather, cold drinks…"
"No paparazzi infringing on your privacy..."
"They're not paparazzi, they're on Trask's payroll."
"You should take tomorrow off."
"I do hate Wednesdays." It's late at night, and she wants to pretend that she can do this, that she can just tell tomorrow to fuck off.
“So what’s keeping you from taking it off? Aside from not wanting the public and Trask to read too much into it?”
“That’s a pretty big aside.”
"What if you could have it both ways?"
That’s your problem, Moira thinks at him. She closes her eyes. She’s not a mutant, she can’t be at two places at once. Which means… "You want Raven to host the show for me tomorrow.”
“She’s played you before.”
Moira is too drunk to worry about that too much right now. “Why?"
Erik just looks at her, long and considering. "Play hooky with me," he says.
He says it in the same plaintive, painful honest tone that Moira has only ever heard him use around Charles. Moira bites her lip, and turns to the sugar-sculpting competition. Really, in the eight years she's known him, she can count the times that he's asked her for something on one hand. The times she's asked him… far more numerous.
They sit together in silence, Erik knowing not to persuade, Moira thinking it through.
She grabs her cellphone, and dials in for Pad Thai. Under Erik’s withering stare, she puts in three orders, because the place is not open on Thursdays and Fridays, and it will be good to have an extra meal in the fridge. With the assurance that the delivery will be there in twenty minutes, Moira hangs up, then turns to Erik. “Now, what’s Raven’s current number?”
blueberry syrup and spiced apple cider
Moira wakes up to a mild hangover.
And Raven at her closet, flicking through Moira’s wardrobe with a ruthlessly efficiency.
“What?” is all that Moira can manage to make out.
“There’s a glass of water and Advil on your bedside table,” Raven says. “Erik’s making waffles.”
“That really doesn’t…” Moira starts. Last night comes back to her, and she sighs. And rolls over, and dry-swallows the Advil. A part of her says that she should be objecting to this all.
She’s hungover, Erik’s making waffles, Raven’s already here.
Moira just flops back down onto her bed, and wonders if there’s anyway she could goad Erik into bringing her waffles in bed.
"You have a lot of clothes," Raven observes.
“The network thought my numbers were better when I dressed better – or at least what they considered better. Really, I just bought the clothes they thought I should, and used my garnered good will into talking them into letting me go after better stories.”
Raven finally settles on a sapphire blue dress, and picks a dark heather gray blazer. “Good?” she asks, holding them up against her.
“Good.”
"Now, give me your phone."
Moira grabs her phone off the bedside stand clutches it to her chest.
"Moira," Erik says, from the doorway. "What if someone calls you?"
"What if someone needs to call me?" Moira retorts.
“If I give you a burner phone that Raven can use to call you if she needs to contact you–”
“And if Erik brings you waffles in bed,” Raven adds.
Erik glares at her, but continues, “Would you give her your phone then?”
“I want syrup on my waffles,” Moira tells him.
Erik’s glare switches to Moira, but he heads out of the room.
Raven strips off her t-shirt and jeans, turning as she does so. She steps into the blue dress, her skin rippling a matching blue, and then Moira is staring at herself. “Zip me up?” she asks.
Moira just stares at Raven. At herself. It’s been years since Raven impersonated her in her vicinity. “Could you not use my voice when you’re with me?”
“Too hungover?” Raven asks, back in her own voice. Which is still strange to hear out of her mouth, but slightly less jarring. “You going to zip me or not?”
“I’ve got it,” Erik says, as he re-enters the room.
Moira’s attention is split between Erik walking over to her bed, holding a plate piled with waffles, and Raven, with the dress fitting taut against her body.
Raven holds out her hand for Moira’s phone, then grabs her blazer, then a waffle. The waffle gets shoved into her mouth, and she wiggles her fingers in goodbye as she strides out of the room.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Erik asks, half-reverently, as he watches her go.
“Raven’s abilities or how my ass looks in that dress?” Moira asks. She nearly chokes on her mouthful of waffle laughing at Erik’s expression.
He swipes a syrup-less waffle off her plate.
Moira resists the urge to call him a plebeian.
"Now," Erik starts, "in order to not draw attention to yourself--"
"You do remember that I had been recruited to join the DSS, don't you?" Moira interrupts. "I know how to get out of town without being noticed. Also, no plotting when I’m eating waffles."
He frowns, but nods. “I need to make a few phone calls. Just,” he adds, at her suspicious look, “letting a few people know that I am not to be contacted today.”
He slips out of the room, and Moira finishes the rest of her breakfast. She changes into a pair of jeans and, on a whim, her old Nieuw Amstel Uni t-shirt. Refusing to wear a matching outfit with Erik, she forgoes her black sweater and instead pulls on her emerald green sweater.
She grabs a ratty sweatshirt she keeps for special occasions and stuffs it into the largest tote she has. And she throws everything in there she could need. Her eReader. A small pack of tissues. A few energy bars. Her make-up pack. A notebook. As well, as she makes her way into the living room, she grabs her umbrella.
Erik frowns at it. "Don't you have one that's..."
"This is my favorite umbrella," Moira tells him.
"You have a favorite umbrella?"
"I know it's a bit flashy," Moira says, looking fondly at the burnt umber color, "but it’s lucky."
Erik sighs, but says nothing more, only grabs his own plain, black retractable umbrella.
Moira pulls on her normal tan peacoat, and pulls her hair back into a ponytail, throws a beanie on, and puts on a pair of cheap ten-dollar sunglasses. She leads Erik down the stairwell, and out onto the street, where she unfolds her umbrella and steps into the rain. The air feels fresher than it normally does, and she sighs happily.
"Where do you want to go?" Erik asks quietly, the word floating from his umbrella to hers.
It's dangerous to stay in town too long, and Moira is looking forward to escaping, if just for the day. But there's a thrill to being here, the thrill of being incognito, and she is enjoying the way it makes her bloom pump faster through her veins.
"Let's walk to the train station," she says. In this inclement weather, the subway stations will be packed, and there will be increased chances of being seen.
Besides, Moira spends so much of her time in a hurry, the idea of dallying holds an appeal.
“Where are we traveling to?”
Moira tilts her umbrella to look at him. I trust you, she thinks. “You choose,” she says.
His gaze pierces her. He nods, reading both messages.
They continue making their way through the rain. Moira resists the urge to jump into a few of the puddles they pass.
Moira stops dead as they pass a coffeeshop – not one of the Apollo shops that seem to be growing every few blocks, but a hole-in-the-wall place. The sign in the window invites people to come inside for hot cider.
"Erik," she says.
Erik sighs.
"Please?" Moira asks, as sweetly as she can manage.
Erik compacts his umbrella, hands it over to Moira, and goes into the coffee-shop.
Moira's burner phone rings, and panic flares through her. She shoves Erik’s umbrella under her arm, and answers the phone with a curt, "Hello?"
There's a sigh on the other line. "Hey, you," comes Darwin's voice.
She relaxes. "How'd you find out?"
"I learned about two years in how to tell when there were birds where there shouldn't be."
"And then you asked her a question only I would know?"
"Nah, I just asked her a question only she would know. She assured me everything's okay, and we hashed out a few ways to make sure we could pull this off. But I just wanted to call, make sure that absolutely everything is okay."
"I'm fine," Moira tells him.
"If you were fine, you would be here."
She huffs a laugh. "I'm exhausted," she tells him. "I'm exhausted, and I want to go on vacation, and Erik talked me into playing hooky."
"Again?"
"That was one time. Now two," she amends.
"And you're doing alright?"
Erik is making his way out of the shop, balancing a tray of drinks. Moira's hands are full with her umbrella and her phone, and so Erik just tugs his umbrella open and over to him.
Moira lets go of her own umbrella – which stays up, thanks to Erik's powers – and takes a cup that he offers.
"I have cider now," Moira tells Darwin, and she takes a sip. And sighs happily. "So I'm doing amazing."
"Good. I'll let you go, then. I'll keep an eye out on her, make sure things go well. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Darwin," Moira says, sincerely.
"Enjoy yourself," he tells her, and then he hangs up.
"Ah," is all Erik says, as they start making their way down the street.
"Why'd you get multiple drinks?" Moira asks, looking down at the tray of four that Erik has.
"Because you have a streak of adventure to you, and after you finish the drink you're having now, you might want to have another drink." He pulls out a flask, and pours a splash into his own cup.
Moira looks up at Erik. "I love you," she tells him.
Her rolls his eyes, but there's an affectionate smile on his face.
She's finished her first drink by the time they reach the train station. Moira recycles the lid and composts the cup, and steps to the side while Erik goes to buy their tickets. She pulls her beanie down further, and switches her damp peacoat in favor for her dry sweatshirt. In the reflection of one of the windows, she knows that no one will look twice at her.
Erik passes her one of the tickets, and leads her to their train, and their compartment.
The compartment is small but empty. Moira doubts it’s chance or luck, but doesn’t want to know how Erik managed it.
Erik gets first pick of seats, and he takes one of the window seats.
Moira sits down across him, on the aisle seat. The way she pushes herself into the corner, and the way the blind is down, she won’t be seen. She slips her feet out of her rainboots, and curls up on her chair, her feet going to the seat across from her. Erik looks down at her feet, huffs, but doesn’t shove them off. She pulls her hair out of her ponytail, and pulls out her eReader.
Erik empties his flask into the two remaining cups, and hands one over to Moira.
She gives him a silent cheer, and then starts in on her pulpy spy mystery. Across from her, Erik is reading a book of his own, cover too worn – and possibly written in German – for Moira to make out.
Outside, everything slides past her.
small city sky blues
An hour later, they disembark a few towns over from New Am. The sun is shining through the brisk October breeze, the rain clouds left behind a few stops ago, and Moira continues to feel a content stirring in her chest.
“Lunch?”
“You’re paying,” Erik tells her.
There’s a cafe that Moira did a piece on, discussing places that would be fucked over by would-have-been Senator Kelly’s retroactive immigration tax gradation. One of Moira’s better segments, and it earned her the never-ending adoration of the owner, Liesa.
Liesa is at the register when they walk in, and she beams at Moira. “And who is this?” she asks, as the two of them reach the counter. “New boyfriend?”
“He’s taken, and I’m not looking.”
“Tis a shame. I know a young man, a friend of a friend. Not as smart as you, but few are. He’s a looker, though.”
Moira just laughs. “Liesa, this is Erik. Erik, this is Liesa.”
“I had an aunt named Liesa,” Erik says. After a hesitance, he adds something in German.
Liesa’s smile grows even brighter, before replying in kind.
Moira knows this is a conversation she will not be able to maintain, and so she just hands Erik her credit card, and goes to snag a table. The sound of their conversation becomes background noise as Moira continues with her story on her eReader.
Her stomach is grumbling by the time Erik makes his way over with two trays with sandwiches and chips.
“Lies says that this is your usual,” he tells her, as he sets down an uitsmijter before her.
“I may even let you have a bite,” Moira replies, as she digs into the sandwich.
Erik has a reuben, which he puts up and down a few times, in place of eating it. “You told Lies that I was taken,” he says.
Moira gives him a sympathetic look. “Look, if you and Charles are in a rough patch again, I’m sorry if I–”
“Charles and I have been attempting reconciliation.”
“Oh?”
“Things between us used to be easy.”
“I remember.”
“What went wrong?” Erik asks.
“You’re not entirely to blame.”
Erik looks at her in surprise.
“I love Charles. And I love you. You both messed up. You’re both trying to fix it. It’s not going to be instantaneous. You’re mad at each other. You both have a right to be mad at each other. But you’ll work it out, one shouting match at a time. And it’ll be easy again.”
Erik goes silent as he eats his sandwich. “I know,” he starts, “that you probably think I have an ulterior motive in all of this, in getting you to hand the show over to Mystique for the night. But that’s not why I’m doing this. I’m… I’m tired, too.”
Moira nods.
He stays quiet for another long minute. “And I’m scared,” he admits, finally. “Everyone expects me to lead, to take command. And I want to. But what Trask did… I keep trying to shake free of my past. What I suffered in Genosha. But it keeps catching up with me. Tripping me. I try, but I cannot lead the Brotherhood as I want to, I cannot be the leader they expect of me.
“You are one of the most fiercely independent and stubborn women I have ever met. I don’t need to lead you. And I know better than to try,” he adds, dryly.
She lets out a soft laugh. “Damn right you should.”
“When I think about it, you know me better than anyone.”
“Except Charles or Raven,” she points out.
“At times.” He stares at her. “Thank you.”
Moira doesn’t think there are words to convey her reply, so she just gives him a warm smile.
They finish their meal in silence.
“So,” Erik says, breezily, as if he hadn’t just been quiet and intensely emotional a few minutes ago, “what do you want to do next?”
Moira thinks about it. “I want to go for a jog,” she says.
Erik nods. “Then let’s go for a jog.”
They mosey down a few streets, digesting their food, before Erik slips into a store to buy them both a pair of sweats.
She and Erik run laps around a local park.
When Moira’s legs feel like they’re going to give out, they wander down a street before
They get into old argument over the classics, then a new argument over mutant representation in kids lit. Erik’s thinking about writing a series, he says, and Moira manages to keep herself from laughing in surprise, and instead starts listing all the publishers she has clout with. Then she starts suggesting names for him to publish under. After the fifth silly suggestion, he starts meeting her suggestion for suggestion until Moira’s crying with laughter.
They’re not thrown out of the bookstore, but it’s a close thing, and they both remain in high spirits as they make their way back to the train station.
tonight’s news with mystique mactaggert
Moira dozes on the couch, more out of the novelty of being able to do it than anything else. Six o’clock turns into seven o’clock. She eats the leftover pad thai, pours herself a glass of wine, but dozes off before she can drink it.
As nine o’clock nears, Moira turns on the TV, and waits.
It’s strange for Moira to see herself on screen.
Raven has captured her perfectly. The posture, the tilt of her head, the aura of control and confidence that Moira has perfectly cultivated over the years.
“Good evening,” she greets. “Today is Wednesday, November 14th, 2014.” Staring into the camera, she announces, “In the news today: things are, mostly, surprisingly, okay.”
Moira raises her glass.