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Moira MacTaggart was a woman with incredible patience. She had to deal with misogynists at work, the actual stresses of being a CIA field agent/paperwork master, and mutants at home. She had a reputation for being a virtually inexhaustible woman and a powerful ally to have on one's side, especially if Charles 'Heart-Eyes' Xavier was on the opposing side. She was known, most famously, for shutting down arguments with sharp rapidity and undeniable facts. Moira MacTaggart was a patient woman.
But Emma Frost got on her nerves.
From the first, neither woman rubbed the other right. Emma was a rich girl from a powerful family, and while she'd all but cut ties with any relatives, she retained her name and family pride. She was a Frost, second above all. This fact was only trumped when something terrible was happening, and then she was a person first, mutant second, and Frost third. This was a listing Charles had made stunningly clear that he was happy with, if only because the 'mutant superiority' card meant jack when Emma was faced with a situation in which she could help children. Adults, maybe not so much, but it was a start.
Moira, on the other hand, was a first-generation American, came from a family that was more poor than rich, chose a job Emma despised, and was human. Yes, when the world was ending, she didn't differentiate mutant from human. Any other time? She rather not-so-discretely looked down her nose at Homo sapiens. Moira had had to work to get where she had, and Emma had not. Well, aside from the whole thing with babysitting and 'sense of work ethic' and other Frost family matters that were only brought up on pain of embarrassment-worse-than-death.
The thing they most frequently argued over was chores. It wasn't like the chores were even that tedious. The schedule rotated so that no-one was doing chores every day of the week unless they wanted to, and it was basic things like laundry and cleaning and dishes. But Emma absolutely refused. "I have more important matters to attend to," she said, and then she'd pull out some tidbit of information that really was important, and said she was following up on it before returning to whatever she'd been doing. Moira, thus far, had been the only one to challenge it, but she never challenged it.
Alex had started a betting pool on when and how Moira would snap. Charles made it clear that he disliked the pool, but had followed up with "I will not stop you, but I will not protect you when she finds out." If she had, she hadn't mentioned it. Emma, Charles, and Moira were the only ones who didn't have a hand in the betting.
The climax came one winter morning, with the wind throwing snow at the windows, as if it knew the setting needed to be perfect. Emma had, once again, neglected her laundry duties, and Moira – and the laundry in question – was nowhere to be found. In fact, she and it had been missing since about 7:30 that morning, following the agent's late night after a more stressful than usual week. Alex had upped his bet that Moira was simply going to mentally scream the telepath into submission. Charles found it a point of grave concern that he couldn't locate her. Erik noted Shaw's helmet – which they still hadn't decided what to do with yet – was also missing.
Emma remained seemingly oblivious to the situation until Charles approached her about it. She'd only given one of her trademark Frost smiles and replied – far too sweetly – "Are you afraid I buried her with the helmet on after she bugged me about it?"
The glare he'd given her made her relent. Sighing, she'd set down her book. "I haven't seen her all day. Surprising, since she's usually very punctual about harassing me about the laundry."
"And why don't you just do it? Just once?" he asked, irritation dripping from his tone. Behind him, Erik – the only one brave enough to enter the room – raised his eyebrows.
"Frosts don't do chores. That's what staff are for." She picked her book up again, sending a very pointed 'go away' message to him. He begrudgingly complied, and just as he walked out, Moira walked in, from the other door. She was wearing the helmet, and the rest of the X-Men – Erik included – were suddenly very glad they'd stayed. "There she is."
"Moira-" Charles started. She cut him off by setting the helmet down with just a little more force than necessary.
"Emma. I noticed the laundry has not yet been done," Moira said, in so cold a tone that Emma actually looked impressed, beneath her amusement.
"Yes, so had I," Emma replied in that too-sweet tone. But something made her stiffen up, and she turned to look at Moira, who now had a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Charles rolled back a little.
"I'm going to ask you once more," Moira now cut Emma off, her tone measured. "Please…do the laundry." Emma was unrelenting. Her icy stare was backed up by an insincere smile.
"Frosts don't do chores. That's what staff are for." Moira nodded, then turned on her heel and strode out, Emma watched her warily, and as Moira left the room, she pulled on the drawstring for the huge curtains. Instead of drawing the curtains, however, it pulled a tripwire on some kind of rigged-up contraption that no-one had noticed until it dumped a basket-full of wet laundry all over Emma. The scream the blonde gave – one mostly of surprise – was no doubt satisfying to Moira. "You-"
"I warned you," Moira said from the other room. She left the scene behind. The helmet, everyone noticed after Emma had angrily grabbed a basket – so passive-aggressively yet helpfully left beside the chair she'd been in – and stuffed the clothes into them, was missing, along with the CIA agent.
On the bright side, Charles was no longer worried.
Emma Frost was not a weak-minded woman. She did only what she wanted to, only when she wanted to, and only how she wanted to. It was one of the many, many issues the team had. She could not be forced or coerced into anything, only persuaded. So if Moira thought she could win against the telepath, she had to try a little harder than that.
Charles, to the best of his abilities, had attempted to broker peace before Moira left for the field again. One week, no contact. Her last words to Emma – though not from her mind to Emma's, or from her mouth to Emma's ears – were "If she's willing to make a concession, then we can talk. As long as Frosts don't do laundry, MacTaggarts don't compromise."
Emma noted, only the morning after Moira had left, that all the belts for Emma's rather expensive Italian dresses were missing. That was fine. She had some equally nice French ones, and several pairs of silk PJs and sweats that Raven had introduced her to – and she would chop off every last piece of her golden hair before she ever conceded that the American loungewear was, on some days, more comfortable than the Chinese silk. She would live.
The helmet had been returned to the basement, though from Erik's perturbed expression and Charles' obvious sadness, she had neither handed the helmet back nor given her boyfriend a proper goodbye. Both, she assumed, were her fault.
Somehow, that made the week that much more anxiety-inducing.
The normal schedule of chores went on, with nothing said about the incident on Sunday. Emma found the books were less interesting than before, hers and Charles' checkers and chess games were becoming boring – tedious, even – and the basket of laundry nagged her. Eventually, she picked it up, and, without a word, walked it to the laundry room.
The chore wasn't as terrible as she assumed it might be. Raven's shocked expression was one to remember, but Emma did get the girl not to speak of it.
In fact, the 'not speaking of it' pact held until Moira returned half a week late to an ecstatic-with-relief Charles, a happy mansion, and a – though she hated to say it – humbled Emma. Raven, to her credit, wasn't the one who told Moira. Whilst doing the laundry, Emma found where Moira had stashed her belts and reclaimed them all. Moira had to have known the hiding spot was weak.
But when she confronted the woman about it, Moira had only smiled. "The only one who would've cared enough to check behind the closet door was you. If they weren't there, you did the laundry."
A white-collar worker she was, but Moira MacTaggart was smart. "Like I said, until Frosts do laundry, MacTaggarts don't compromise. So…" She sat down across from Emma. "Let's talk."
A smile pulled across Emma's lips. Suddenly, she liked Moira much more. After all, it wasn't often anyone beat Emma at her own game, especially with no powers to speak of.
"That's where you're wrong, my friend," Charles remarked in Emma's mind. "She does have a power: Patience."
Emma conceded the point. She never brought it up again.