Moira's taking a shortcut from the grounds through the garage--well, one of the garages.
It's possible that it isn't actually a shortcut. It's possible that she just likes looking at the garage's contents. Moira had always read her father's copies of Sports Cars Illustrated cover-to-cover as a girl, and Xavier's automobile collection is exquisite. Any one of these vehicles would have been well out of her price range on a CIA salary--the salary of a female agent anyway--and it's not like she really needs to go one hundred miles per hour to get to work on time (which for Moira means at least ten minutes early). Her Ford Falcon does the job just fine, and she's proud that she earned the money to buy it fair and square, rather than coming into it from an old family fortune.
But still, it's nice to look at them, to imagine herself zipping around in that Jaguar Mark IX like a character in an Ian Fleming novel (and not one of the wide-eyed innocents 007 is always hauling around in the passenger seat of his lovely vehicles).
She's crouched down, peering into the window of a 1954 Bentley R-type and admiring the sleek interior--even the door trim is matching leather, when she hears someone else enter the garage. She peeks out through the car's windows and sees that it's Lehnsherr, fondling the garage's only motorcycle. She's looked at the bike before. It's an Indian 841, from the 40s. Rare these days, since Indian went out of business almost a decade ago. A nice bike, though no one's maintained it, not the way the cars have been lovingly maintained.
She quietly steps out from between the cars and asks, "Do you ride?"
Lehnsherr turns around, not looking terribly pleased to see her (but Moira can hardly help it if she isn't Charles Xavier) and asks, "Excuse me?"
"Do you ride? The motorcycle, I mean. It seems like something you would do."
"Something I would do," Erik says, as if he doesn't know exactly what she means.
Moira clarifies, "Yeah. You know, leather jacket, sunglasses, killing people with your bare bands, riding a motorcycle." Moira's not sure why she's asking. She's pretty sure the answer is "yes," but there's only the one motorcycle in the garage. It isn't as if they could go out on day trips together. Or as if she would really want to.
Erik says, with surprising civility, "No. I've wanted to learn, but never had the time. I can't imagine it's difficult."
So easy even a woman could do it, Moira thinks but does not say. Instead, she forces her face into a neutral mask (something Moira has a lot of practice doing) and says, "Well, if you ever have an afternoon free, I can teach you."
She bites back a sigh at the look on Lehnsherr's face; he has not done her the courtesy of even trying to hide his surprise. Despite whatever Charles says, she suspects that his real problem with her is not that she's a human, but that she's a woman. But he's hardly the first man to whom she's been forced to prove herself.
"Oh, come on," she says. "I work for the CIA." Why does everyone always forget that? "Sometimes I have to sneak into strip clubs in my underwear and sometimes I have to chase spies across Venice on a motorbike." She shrugs. "You're right--it's not hard." Especially if you can hold the bike up with your mutant power. "It's all about balance. I can--"
She's interrupted, not for the first time today, by Charles Xavier's exuberant voice. "Erik? Moira?"
"Hey, Charles," Moira says. "Erik was just offering to teach me how to ride the motorcycle." It's out before she can even really think it through. On the one hand, this means she'll have to spend more time with Lehnsherr. On the other hand, he'll owe her. Worth it, she decides. Her instincts so rarely lead her astray.
"Wonderful!" Charles says. He actually claps his hands together with delight. "I'm so glad to see the two of you getting along. I was just coming by to see if Erik wanted a game of chess before dinner."
"Sure," Erik says. "I'll finish up here and see you in about fifteen minutes?"
"Brilliant," Charles says, giving Erik googly eyes. Some days Moira can barely stand to be in the same room as those two. Luckily for her, Charles bounces back out of the garage, no doubt off to make sure the chess board is perfectly set up in his office, with appropriately soft lighting and beverages at the ready.
Moira grins at Erik. "Thank you, Moira," she says sweetly, "for earning me points with my boyfriend."
"Yes, well," Erik says, looking irritated in a way that Moira very much enjoys.
"Bet you anything he asks you to teach him," she says, and they both know she's right. "So we'd better start those lessons as soon as possible."
"I would almost think you were looking forward to it," Erik mutters.
"Looking forward to make you superbly uncomfortable?" Moira asks. "I can't imagine why." She wonders what other skills she might be able to pass on to Erik. Fencing, or perhaps skiiing--winter was approaching. She might just learn to enjoy Lehnsherr's company after all.
In the meantime, Erik and Charles will be occupied for quite awhile, so she might as well take that red Jaguar out for a little spin on the backroads. She's read they can reach 145 miles per hour, and she's sure Charles hasn't fully tested the capabilities of his fleet. But Moira's a CIA agent, and she knows the importance of testing one's field equipment.