Through a Silver Storm
A/N: This fic is a part of The First Ever RLt Holiday Fic Exchange and is a gift for the lovely RedheadedMarina who asked for "X-Men: First Class, specifically Charles/Moira."
A few stray silvery snowflakes drifted through the chill December air and swirled around the auburn-haired woman who stood on the doorstep of Xavier Mansion. She raised her gloved hand and hesitated briefly before knocking twice, sharply.
The young man with spiky blond hair who answered the door smiled in recognition. "Moira!" He stepped aside, motioning for her to come inside.
"Alex," she said carefully, as if not quite sure, but Alex just smiled.
"The Professor is in the library," he said. "I suppose you remember where that is..." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around awkwardly.
Moira blinked then narrowed her eyes slightly as she turned her head slowly towards the library doors. "Yes," she responded, sounding a little surprised. "I do."
Moira paused inside the door, her eyes finding the professor seated in his wheelchair behind an ornate wooden desk. His brilliant blue eyes met hers, and she saw flashes of many different emotions there: guilt, relief, fear, joy. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and tugged at her burgundy scarf to loosen it. "It's like waking up from a dream, in a way," she said. "Only to find that the dream wasn't a dream at all, I guess."
Charles rolled his wheelchair out from behind the desk. "Please, have a seat, Moira." He motioned to a chair.
She unwound the scarf from her neck and folded it in her lap as she sat. "You sent me away, made me forget you." There was less accusation in her voice than she would have expected and he simply nodded in response. "Why do I remember now?"
He sighed and looked at his folded hands before meeting her gaze once again. "I never intended for you to forget forever; I just needed you to forget long enough."
"So this is long enough?"
"I suppose it must be."
She clenched her hands in the folds of her scarf. "Charles, when we first met, you complimented my hair, because the colour was the result of mutation." She reached up with one hand and absently twisted a lock of her shoulder-length hair between her fingers.
"I've always loved your hair," he said softly.
"But," she continued, a frown creasing her brow, "it's not—it's not special enough, my mutation, I mean. Not for you."
Charles' pain was evident on his face and he reached for her hand. "Your hair has never been the only thing special about you, Moira."
She let him take her hand, and was surprised to find tears running down her cheeks. "I should be so angry at you," she said, her voice quavering slightly as the tears flowed unchecked, "but I'm not."
Shocked realization dawned on Charles' face. "I never intended for you to lose your job. I am so very sorry."
She wiped her sleeve across her cheek, laughing a little. "You're reading my mind."
"Well, yes." He looked apologetic and quickly clarified, "Surface thoughts only, though. You were thinking that part a bit...loud. I would understand completely if you were angry at me." He sighed and brushed his hair off his forehead before placing his hand over their clasped hands. "What I did...it wasn't fair to you."
She leaned toward him and squeezed his hand. "It's all right. I've changed careers now anyway—for some reason I had this sudden interest in genetics." She laughed softly, wiping away the last of her tears. "I enjoy it."
Charles beamed at her. "You are amazing, Moira," he said with sincerity. "I'd offer to help you, but...I don't think you'll need it."
"Thank you," Moira said. Ignoring the voice in her head that warned her it was a bad idea, she leaned forward and kissed him gently, then rested her forehead against his.
He looked at her appraisingly through his lashes. "I don't really deserve you," he said.
She pulled back, laughing softly at him. "If you really want me to believe that, you're going to have to make me." If he was still reading her surface thoughts, he'd know she was serious about that.
"Darling," he said, stroking a lock of her hair. "You can believe whatever you like."
A/N: The title is a quote from the song "Once Upon A December" (lyrics written by Lynn Ahrens) from the movie Anastasia. If you're not familiar with the song, I suggest looking it up – it's a good song.