AN: This story was inspired by the Proteus storyline in the X-Men comics. It draws on Moira's backstory, in which she was married to an abusive man. I wrote this oneshot as an interpretation of what I think Moira went through when she discovered she was pregnant with Kevin MacTaggert. The story can function either in the movie or comic verses as it was imagined with Rose Byrne in mind. Any and all critiques and opinions are welcome.
A plus sign. Two perpendicular, perfectly straight lines intersecting. Positive. Pregnant.
Amazing, the connotation behind such a perfectly innocent symbol etched onto a plastic stick. Moira MacTaggert used it on a daily basis. It was a common placeholder in formulas and in equations. Addition to a base figure. She would never have expected two lines forming perfect 90 degree angles on all sides to have such a vast impact on her own insignificant life.
But, here she was, sitting in the stark white bathroom of a hotel in New York, staring at a home pregnancy test, wherein that plus sign meant that she was not one, but two. In just three brief, fleeting minutes following carrying out the instructions on the box, Moira had been made aware that she was the unwitting host to an impossibly small and unlikely combination of genetic material that would, with enough time, grow to be a child. And with that realization, the air was sucked from the room as though a vacuum, her chest tight as she struggled to suck in a shallow breath.
Even though Moira had harbored her suspicions, nothing could have prepared her for the revelation that she carried a child. She had held out to some vain, desperate hope that there was another explanation for her frequent spells of nausea, mood swings, and fatigue. Perhaps because it was easier to lie to herself than to admit that her life was about to change in a radical and all-consuming way. Moira was acutely aware of the cool porcelain of the bathtub against her thighs and the chilling touch of tile against her bare feet raising goose flesh on her arms and legs. But she was quite certain that the shiver flicking up her spine had very little to do with the temperature of the room.
Letting her head fall into her hands, she let out a shuddering sigh that approached a sob. The poetry of it all was that she had always wanted to be a mother; yearned for the day when she had a little one to call her own. But these fantasies of playing house belonged to a less broken woman in a different world. Not a woman whose ribs still ached from her last confrontation with her husband. They certainly did not belong to a woman whose bruises had yet to fade completely, dark purple now ringed with a garish, mottled chartreuse.
It had hardly been six weeks since Moira had woken in a hospital bed, groggy and confused, her head heavy and throbbing, weighed down with swaths of cotton bandages. A kind nurse with a worn face and soft skin held her hand, telling her in a soothing voice that she was going to be alright. It had been intoxicating and tempting. How Moira wanted to believe those words. She'd been unconscious for a week following her husband Joe's drunken rampage.
Her stomach turned as the stench of his whiskey-soaked breath filled her nostrils and her ears roared with the memory of his voice, twisted and distorted with rage as he came toward her. Moira's gut lurched as she thought of what else had befallen her that evening before she had succumbed to unconsciousness, fading into the security of empty, black nothingness. The metallic taste of bile was on her tongue before she could stop it and she retched into the nearby toilet as though her body was trying to purge itself of these diseased memories. But it was too late. They had infected her through and through and now there would be everlasting proof of her husband's brutishness.
Moira stood, hands and legs trembling, making her way to the sink to rinse out her mouth. She looked in the mirror, greeted by a mere ghost of herself: eyes hollow and haunted, accompanied by dark circles and pale skin, hair dank and lackluster. This was not Dr. Moira MacTaggert, PhD in genetics from Oxford University. It was not the short-tempered Highland Scot used to winning quiz night and lording it over her friends at the pub. She stared at her reflection. Was she really going to let Joseph MacTaggert take everything from her? He'd already taken so much…
But, now. A baby. Moira's hand traveled to rest over her abdomen, unchanged to anyone else's eyes. She knew, though. That out of this nightmarish act of abomination, somehow, had come a life. A tiny, pure being that yet bore no markings of its father's obscene intentions. A spark lit in her at the thought, like the pilot light of a furnace blinking on in her chest. She raised her eyes to the mirror once again, seeing a spot of color blooming in her cheeks. Her heart thrummed in quick succession, gaze trained on where her child lay, innocent of the evils of the world.
There may be no salvation for her, no way to cleanse herself of the horrors she had experienced. But perhaps it was not yet too late for the little one. Moira took in a sharp breath. There was hope yet. And she would be damned if she was going to let Joe's hateful influence tarnish this yet unblemished soul. This would be her chance to set things right.
Joe would surely not show his face on Muir Island for a long while if he knew what was good for him. She would have relative safety and privacy there to start her life anew. Moira and her son or daughter… The two of them together taking on the world. Perhaps she would finally start the research center that she and Charles had dreamed up while writing their senior theses.
Moira again touched her fingertips to her belly, where cells were dividing at a rapid pace, knitting together the very frames of existence. The shadows of her life had hardly cleared. Each deep breath still wrought a stitch of pain and she had no doubt that her sleep would still be plagued with nightmares. But, the little speck of hope was like a pick in a piece of fabric. Little at first, perhaps not even perceivable to the naked eye. But if one worried at it, it would become a hole, and unravel until the fabric was undone.
One little, seemingly harmless and insignificant thing, like a plus sign… It could change everything. That much had already been proven. Yes, Moira thought, her expression now set in determination. This small thing, this little life, had changed everything.