So I liked the deleted scenes with Moira quite a lot, because to me, they really solidified a lot of things about Charles' character: His moral ambiguity (the mind-creeping bit); his relationship with Erik (the fact that he only seems to come to Moira after he's had some sort of frustrating interaction with the future Master of Magnetism); his barely-functional alcoholism. I also think the world could use a few more Moira-POV stories (and less hatred just 'cause she's got a vag, mmmkay). This has been floating around in my head for a couple of days now, kind of solidifying all of that, and now that it's come to fruition, I can clear up some space there.
Summary: Moira struggles with her attraction to Charles Xavier, while Charles struggles to learn some boundaries. Implied Charles/Moira, Erik/Charles. Title is from Britney Spears' "Mmm Papi." P.S.: "Oliver" is, in fact, Oliver Platt, the Man in Black who takes Charles and company back to his facility. He's not credited with a name in the movie, so I'm just using the actor's name.
Stuck in the Middle of It All
Moira spends the first couple of days after meeting Charles Xavier being kind of infatuated with him. Instinctively, she goes into what she calls her success-mode, her state of mind when something seemingly impossible needs to get done. Less than a week prior, Moira knew next to nothing about genetic mutation. Now, suddenly, she's read Charles' thesis cover-to-cover - twice - and has already committed several minor offenses in the course of just getting Charles and Raven on-board to assist the CIA with its shadowy, new "mutant division."
Charles is bright-eyed and brilliant, the perfect mixture of nubile young professor and slightly arrogant fop. He is easy enough to waylay when Moira shoots him down in the bar that first night, and, in fact, seems rather chagrined by it when they meet again the next day. "So sorry about my beastly behavior the other night, love," Charles tells her, and his cheeks are ever so slightly flushed. "You didn't deserve that."
Unfortunately, it becomes a motif. Charles Xavier is a cheap drunk, and an even worse flirt. In addition, the lovely young man wears his similarly lovely heart on his sleeve - mostly the sleeves of sweaters that are much too big for him, which Moira thinks makes him look disarming, and occasionally wonders if it's intentional - and never so obviously as when he meets Erik Lehnsherr.
Moira senses that Erik is trouble from the moment Charles drags him back onto the boat that fateful night when Sebastian Shaw escapes their interrogation. The man is tall and thin and, Moira thinks, weary, but she also notices how he drinks in Charles' excitement over their finding of one another like a starving man offered a hot meal. He, too, is head over heels for Charles Xavier, and Moira tries to be all right with that.
After that night, she mostly sees Charles, never far from Erik, in her peripheral vision. He still favors her with his winning smiles and, occasionally, even a covert glance or two, but for the most part, he saves his most blatant affections for Erik. Then it's Moira who learns the hard way when these affections don't seem to be readily returned. The first time, Charles pops into her private quarters uninvited after hours, smiling with the tiniest bit of smarm and seeming more on-edge than she's used to. Though Moira has had at least a few fantasies of this nature about him, this feels wrong; then he uses his telepathic tricks to alter her vision, just for a moment, and she decides she's had enough. "Read my mind," she orders him, and he outright laughs at her.
"I'd rather read your lips," he coos, and Moira's mouth thins, her demeanor offended and hurt. With a small, exasperated sigh, Charles complies, and then stumbles away from her quickly. "I'm sorry," he mumbles softly. "I didn't know ... I never want to make you feel uncomfortable, Moi - er, Agent MacTaggert." His hand brushes the doorjamb, and Moira's lips twitch at his melodramatic reaction.
"You can still call me 'Moira,' Charles," she tells him, and he nods reluctantly. The next morning, she hears that Erik was about to slip off into the night, but has decided to stick around ("for whatever reason," Oliver snorts, a bit dubiously), and isn't even surprised.
Shaw's attack on the CIA is a terrible loss, both to the agency that has reluctantly accepted Moira as its own, as well as to Charles' fledgling team of mutants. When he brings them all to the mansion, she's not sure what she was expecting, but like Erik, she can't quite contain her awe at its general opulence. It makes sense to her better, somehow, why Charles seems to act the way he does sometimes, like he could own the world if he wanted to.
Charles jumps feet-first into training his new students. Here, at the Xavier home, everything is lush and open, and Moira watches everybody bloom into the person they were obviously meant to be, even just in a few short days. Even Erik, she thinks with some surprise, has relaxed a bit. At the same time, as they had during their shared trip to Russia and in spurts while Charles and Erik were on their recruitment road trip together, Moira's suspicions flare up. There is something odd about the way each man looks at the other, a closeness between them that Moira has never seen duplicated, even between incredibly close CIA field agents. It puzzles and intrigues her, and then, eventually, it irritates her, once she's drawn unwittingly into it.
There's a news report that all but confirms Shaw's presence near Cuba the next day. Just like that, the house is in a fervor; gone are the easy-going afternoons spent in the sunshine and the evenings playing board games in a raucous, laughing group. Gone, too, is Charles and Erik's warm camaraderie; when Moira passes by them on the way down the hall to brush her teeth, she sees Erik's tight jaw and Charles' frustrated hand raking through his own hair, and hurries off in the opposite direction to find another bathroom.
It shouldn't surprise her when Charles seeks her out hours later. She can tell he's already been drinking, but the bottle he presents to her is yet unopened. Soft music plays behind them on the radio - it's been a habit to fall asleep to music since Moira was a little girl - and with a bit of fanfare, Charles sets the bottle down with a soft 'plunk' on a nearby table top, and then takes Moira's hand in his, kissing it and bowing. "May I have this dance, m'lady?" he asks her, and she accepts good-naturedly and lets him lead her onto the makeshift dance floor. They sway a little and he's not half-bad, Moira thinks, but it's over fairly quickly. "A toast," Charles calls out as he pops open the bottle and pours some wine into each of the glasses he's brought along with him from the kitchen. "To good friends."
"To good friends," Moira repeats, and their glasses clink together. Once they plunk down on the sofa together, one drink turns into four, and then into six rather quickly, or at least it does for Charles. Moira carefully nurses her second glass, but still sits rather stiffly by the time Charles has slid his hand up her leg.
"I like you, Moira," he says, and his voice is almost a whisper. Moira stares into Charles' bleary blue eyes, and then at his very wet, very red mouth. "You like me, yes?" he asks hopefully. "You thought we had something pretty much the moment we met, right?"
Moira stifles a sigh. "You're a smart man, Charles Xavier," she tells him honestly, and moves her hand briefly atop his so she can remove the offending appendage from her leg. "I think you and I both know it's not me you mean."
Charles balks a little. "Of course it is," he scoffs, slurring a bit. He leans closer, and Moira can smell the citrusy scent of the wine on his breath when he speaks. "Of course it is, M-Moira ..." He trails off, and then he's kissing her, their mouths pressed together, and they're both kind of gaping. It lasts for several seconds, neither of them moving much, except that Charles' hand has now reached around to grip a little at her lower back. Patiently, Moira places her hand briefly on Charles' face and tugs hers away cleanly. Then she straightens in her seat and smoothes down her skirt.
Charles licks his lips and looks down. "I'm sorry," he tells her, and Moira nods.
"I know."
Charles looks embarrassed now. "We had a fight," he tells her softly, his hands fumbling in his lap. "Me an' Erik, and then, uh, me and Raven, too, I guess. I don't like when Erik and I fight," he continues, and Moira just lets him talk, sensing that this is what he needs right now more than anything. "When ... when we do, it feels like we're never going to stop."
Moira considers this. "Everyone's emotions are running pretty high tonight," she concedes, opting for tact. "The mission tomorrow, and all."
Charles nods, but continues to look glum. "I like him, Moira," he murmurs piteously. "He's mean and angry and I think he's too damaged for anyone to fix, but I like him so much."
"I know," Moira says, and her mouth curves upwards a bit. When Charles leans his head against her shoulder, there's no romantic intent behind it this time, and so she allows it, eventually slinging her arm across the small man's thin shoulders. "He likes you too, you know," she says after a few moments of silence, in which she suspects that Charles is listening to her heartbeat. "I can tell."
Charles looks up, his eyes bright, and it's the look Moira used to fantasize about receiving from Charles Xavier, except it's meant for someone else. "D'you think so?" he asks hopefully, and Moira can't help but laugh, her giggle a sad tinkle that rings in the air between them a bit.
"I think so." Charles nearly falls asleep on her, until Moira nudges him awake because she's starting to get a shoulder cramp. They don't talk about the encounter the next morning, though Moira can see the chilly reception that Raven gives her brother, and the way he kind of keeps his head down when their interaction is required. On the other hand, when Erik strides over to Charles and begins helping him fasten all of the metal bits on the yellow suit that Hank made for the X-Men's maiden mission, Moira sees Charles' eyes sparkle, with love and affection and awe, and can only hope that it's enough to see them all through this day.