X Moira's X
The house was two storied and whitewashed. The house was of no particular style, like it had been renovated too many times, to include too many rooms, but somehow it achieved a welcoming quaintness. No one answered the front door so X walked around the back. A green lawn and a few straggly roses, dotted the backyard that was playing host to some sort of Shakespeare recitation, led by a group of young students. The students were mock fighting each other with sticks between bursts of "thou art a villain!"
"Villain I am not!"
"Thou would make us minstrels sowing nothing but discord!"
"Romeo and Juliet I can't believe they're doing it again this year." Moira came up from behind Charles startling him a little. Her smile was fond.
"Lost in your own thoughts Charles? That's very like you." She greeted him warmly no hint of anger or of recrimination. She held nothing against him.
"Moira." Charles relaxed a little. "Come inside Charles." Moira led him inside to the living room.
"Professor James Moriarty I see we meet again!"
"Shut up Watson, let me do the talking." Sherlock was annoyed.
"But you're in a dress Holmes!" Watson was indignant."
"And I compliment you on your choice of fashion Sherlock, and how are you dear, still the hero of Reichenbach?" Moriarty preened.
"it seems the living room is taken."
"Sorry Moira." The boys chimed.
"Let's go up to my room. "Benedict Cumberbatch
Charles limped up the stairs behind her.
"That young Mr Benedict he's quite the up and comer, you know." Charles felt slightly jealous, not that he had the right to be. But he can see how Moira could be happy here surrounded amongst these bright young people.
Her room was full of simple soft furnishing, a cheap settee in front of a low table, a single iron bed by a bay window. All she could hope to afford on the small pension offered by the government, and the only record she'd ever served her country. Charles knew she deserved better, he'd offered her money long ago, she had refused; not that money could heal the hurt between them, and Moira was always fiercely independent. They sat down in front of the table.
"Tea?" Moira offered.
Charles smirked and offered a bottle of scotch instead, from beneath his coat. She smiled back. For a moment they are quiet young and quiet together.
"Oh I shouldn't really, doctor's orders." Moira sets the tea cups down, they bang with the reality of the here and now.
"Go on Moira just a little one. For old time's sake." He has grey creeping up his temples; she has long un-dyed streaks of it that curl up into to her once girlish ponytail. Time has caught up with them both so fast, Charles thinks.
"Wicked, wicked Charles." She smirks back at him not entirely joking, letting him pour the scotch.
He smiled softly, "how have you been?" He is genuine in his concern. Moira pauses as if to determine the real answer to his question. Are you alright?
"I've been doing okay Charles. Happy even. There is a little life here and it's enough," she gestures to the house she now runs for university students. "Honestly I didn't know what I'd do at first. I thought I go mad. I really did." She says with a tiny smile, while she smooths out the wrinkles in her dress. He can tell. He can see that her victory has come at a price.
"Moira, my dearest. I am so sorry." He says with all the sincerity he can muster, his big blue eyes locking with her small brown ones that are full of suppressed hurt. 'Sorry', the words were not enough, to cover the wrong that he had done her. He wonders if he too could have been happy once with Moira in a place like this, he considered being a teacher once. He only had a couple of semesters at Oxford during the war, and even though he had completed his undergraduate study via correspondence; dragging his text books all the way through France had earnt him the nickname professor. He wanted to finish that work one day. One day had never come. That war and had turned into whatever this was. A cold war Erik said sometimes. "It wasn't your fault Charles. It was this business. It wasn't what I signed up for anymore." But it was him, he thinks and wonders how much of that time she actually remembers. He took a breath before his next question.
"Moira there is something I wanted to ask you about, you remember Budapest."
"I remember. Yes, I 've even got some photos of us back then." Moira collects a box of photos off her shelf. "There's Control in his uniform, quiet the dashing one wasn't he." She winks to him, Charles nods uncomfortably. Control is black and white in the photo, hair cropped close military style, unsmiling and severe, but and he notices; Erik has posed rather dashingly for the photo. That was before they were sent to France. Charles smiles to himself, noting that Erik had been vain even then. He's never seen that photo before and wonders how Moira got it.
"Arh here's one of you and the boys from the division, what was it that they nicknamed you? Lehnsherr used to say it all the time, that's right, she nudges him with a conspiratorial wink: you were all Inglorious Bastards. Those were good times Charles, when an Englishman could be proud." She mocks him.
"That was the war Moira." He replies almost angrily, he is still proud. She looks away. He has yet again hurt her, when he needs her help. Sexual orientation is not the only reason why they got divorced he concludes sadly.
"Here's the one." She has known where the photo was along, she has drawn out the finding of it so that they may talk longer. She misses him so much even now, with the years between them. Moira passes him the photo. There are no more fond memories to be found with him, she thinks. She gives him what he needs so that he will leave.
"What did you do when you found this?" He is all business now, intense eyes narrowing, studying her response.
"I went to Shaw and Stryker. You and Control were still out of the country". Charles looks at the picture of imposing man being saluted.
"He was in Budapest. He was the waiter at the café. I've seen him before."
"I never saw the waiter."
"You couldn't have. You were inside with Erik."
"I could have seen him when I was running. I only saw you." She smiles sadly.
"I guess we were both distracted." His reply is awkward.
They both pause, the photo between them, the past between them. She'd saved him. Yet he could still taste betrayal on her lips and she could see his crime written in his searching blue eyes. Moira drew a breath and continued, "His code name was Azazel. Always coming and going between here and Russia. This is the only photo we have of him. He was always more of a spirit than an actual presence. Some said his nickname was the devil."
"I know the name, Azazel wasn't he the attaché to the ambassador."
"Yes. He was labeled whiter than white and when I checked nothing came up on his file. "
"Nothing?"
"No criminal or political activity or military service. That's what got me suspicious, if he isn't military why was he being saluted? Do you remember the rumors about Karla?"
"Yes, Logan thought Karla was training military men to be spy's, here in London. He could never prove it though. Then we lost him in Budapest." They lost Logan in that day filled with blood. Moira looks at him sympathetically. They sip their drinks slowly. He hadn't said Logan's name in a year. She picks up the photo again, returning to the present problem.
"So what were the Russians doing with a military man disguised an attaché? I 'd lay odds that man was with Karla." Moira delivers her bomb shell to Charles looking every bit the spy she had once been.
"What did they do when you told them?" Charles places his next question carefully; he needs to know that what she remembers is the truth, and not an opinion marred by prejudice or warped by time.
"Sebastian and Stryker? They told me to forget it." She gives it to him flatly. No hesitation. No hint of a lie or exaggeration. Charles stares at her, his eyes go a little wide. He has them. Bloody Azazel, attaché to the Soviet ambassador. Shaw's link to Russia. "So I was right. There is someone working for Russia in the Circus." Moira is vindicated. She was a good agent.
"Yes." The implications are burning through his mind. He knows who, but knows he has to figure out how and catch them in the act. How many more would Shaw take down with him? Charles stands up to leave, but she stops him.
"Charles" she begins in a quiet shaking voice, she sounds like she did when he told her it was over, this is her most vulnerable tone. It holds his attention, by breaking his heart. "Charles if it's bad. If it's bad like Budapest. Don't come back. I want to remember you all the way you were."
Charles thinks that she is still beautiful even now, even with the gray in her hair and the awful words in her mouth. He won't be back. He wouldn't do that to her. "Thank you Moira." He says softly as he shuffles out of the apartments.
"Charles , I heard about Control I am sorry." She calls out as he leaves.
Charles just nods it is all he trusts himself with. He feels like a train wreck.