email to Summers_Grey
Nathaniel has no notion, really, how to be in a relationship. He understood, in the context of his time, how to be a husband to Rebecca, though that of course ended quite disastrously. Faye--he had cared for her, in his own way, but that had not been him really, who had courted her. That had been for a specific purpose, for his work.
Rachel--Rachel was just his. She knew who he was. There was no reason for subterfuge. Which meant, he was often at a loss how to behave, with her. It wasn't so much that he wasn't used to being himself, it was just that he wasn't used to people wanting to actually be with him when he was.
Nathaniel knew he was not a good man. Rachel knew it, too. Yet, she was still...interested...in courting his presence in her life. It confounded him, to be quite honest, likely more so than it did Rachel or even her family.
He thought about what she said, how she'd mentioned in their last psychic conversation that perhaps he could email her when he was thinking of her. Which he was, at the moment.
He retired to the study and opened his email. He was going to ask Isobel if she'd changed the background on the computer to be a scantily clad woman. It wasn't him (he had not realized one could change it) and he rather doubted it was either Doug or Pyro.
To: Rachel (R_Grey@x-corp.org)
From: N. Essex (Essex@shield.org)
Subject: Hello
Dear Rachel,
I hope this electronic message finds you well. I am presently taking a break from research, as Miss Chambers is on a date. She recently went out with a young woman who models lingerie (before you accuse me of acquiring this information through devious means, I should amend that she returned home quite late one night last week, rather pissed (drunk; apparently, this slang means "angry" in America, though she was a bit of that, too) and related this tale to me), a career which sounds very scandalous, though I suppose not as scandalous as some modeling one could engage therein (someone has been looking at very interesting pictures on my computer--I shan't mention it to Isobel, but if you find the pictures there, do not think they are mine--apparently the sort of thing by which I am intrigued is illegal to photograph?), and alas, their relationship did not quite last beyond an initial date.
I just re-read that, and it is a frightfully long sentence.
As I was saying, Isobel is out on a date, and I do hope she has found a young woman with a bit more brains about her, as I should not have liked to have had dinner with a lingerie model, unless she was perchance modeling lingerie at dinner? Is this terribly improper? I have had a bit of gin. I am only just teasing, I do not know if my manners could quite handle scantily clad women at the table (that were not you) for dinner. However, of all the terrible things I have had to put up with at dinner, a woman in lingerie would be quite negligible. Have I ever told you what Apocalypse thought was proper dinner behaviour? There were times he would toss food up and make us scramble to fight for it, which I disliked intensely and found rather insulting, so I would merely go hungry. I was usually whipped for that. One simply could not win.
Our work is going well. We have a theory that perhaps, whatever is halting the birth of live mutants, is not so much a lack of an X-Gene but some oddity that is suppressing the activation thereof. We have a rather brilliant idea, but are waiting on samples in order to further postulate a theory. I must say, Rachel, this waiting round for others to attend to my needs in matters of science is quite frustrating. I am following proper procedures and contracting for any samples through legal and SHIELD-recommended means. I have written that sentence approximately one-thousand times, can you tell?
Isobel seems to be less afraid of me. I am still forbidden from looking anywhere she may be standing without a verbal announcement that I am not, in fact, staring at her. I have offered to put pupils in my eyes for her, but apparently, that made me resemble some type of horror-movie creature and she was not keen on the identification, so. I am afraid it is terribly amusing when she becomes vexed at me for forgetting, however, which I am sure shall make you scold me. She asks after you and I tell her you are well.
I hope that your young Anna is behaving herself. Are you still certain she is going to leave X-Corp for Magneto (do not worry, this email is encrypted--Stark's security procedures are laughable. I am, in the interest of fairness, only encrypting my emails to you, as I do not fancy Stark "reading over my shoulder", so to speak.) in the near future? That would be very foolish of her. Perhaps she should consider joining SHIELD, but I have seen the press and we are not regarded all that more favourably than the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants (a horrid name--what was Magneto thinking?)
I hope that you are doing well, and enjoying your work. I realise, Rachel, I am quite unsure what it is you do at X-Corp. Isobel asked me, then chasitised me for not knowing this information. I remarked you were a lingerie model, and then she threw a beaker at me. Which I caught, luckily, though we have broken others (not through antics, through actual chemical reactions). Stark charges us for broken equipment. I have kept the broken bits in a box, and was hopeful on your next visit, you might fix them up for me? I shall take you somewhere nice to dinner with the money I have saved. I am quite unused to having a budget. Working with the programme--Quicken, I believe--would give me a headache if I were able to get one. Isobel tried to help me, but apparently it "freaks her out" that I do not blink. I was not aware I did that.
So, if you would be so kind as to elucidate your job duties to me, I should look less like an "awful, self-absorbed boyfriend" (c.f. Isobel) when next she asks.
Isobel is rather vexing, however, I find--I find I am fond of her, Rachel. In not at all the same way I am fond of you, of course. There was a moment the other day when I realised I would be quite irate if something were to happen to her. I also am quite intent that she be allowed to publish her research, she is very clever, and deserves some sort of recompense (then perhaps she could purchase clothing with more material). I am not, honestly, all that pleased with this. Not with Isobel herself, obvs, but caring what happens to her and wishing her to have success. These things are foreign to me, and not at all welcome. I suppose I shall adjust in time, unless I am strapped back into another machine eradicating the few emotions I seemed to have developed.
(Kidding. I know of no such machine in existence, do not worry.)
I thought of you, the other day. Not in the fashion which I assume you will think (though I have, of course, thought of such things quite often, being a man). I was watching a documentary on Pre-Raphealite painters (they were all quite addicted to opium and rather shady types--did you know this? I knew that one chap, Waterhouse? A bit off his rocker, that one. I suspect he had the clap, as he was very popular with ladies of questionable reputation, and a bit nutters in his dotage) and there was a model, on the programme (one of the artist's models) who quite reminded me of you. Most of the others were rather ingenue types, you know the ones, all wide-eyed innocence and simpering female sorts. There was one, though, who was smirking a bit and looked as if she were about to leap off the canvas, take the paintbrush from the artist, and possibly do him bodily harm. There was something about the way the woman was standing that quite reminded me of you. And she was very lovely, red-headed and fair as you are, and appeared quite dangerous though being very slight, again, as you are. She was staring out of the painting in a very challenging fashion. I paused the programme (I have something called a "TiVo" which allows me to do this, even during a live broadcast--is a fascinating thing, but I cannot fathom how to program it to tape NOVA and shall not ask Isobel, as she would laugh at me) and actually laughed for a moment, thinking the woman on the screen was going to speak to me and say "Nathaniel" in just that way that you do when you are sufficiently annoyed at me. At any rate, I quite missed your company.
I do not believe I have anything else to say. Do feel free to write me back if you wish; I shall be awake. I do believe it is early morning there, yes? Perhaps you are sleeping, now, with your head half-buried beneath your arm and holding the pillow, as you are wont to do, instead of sleeping upon it. I asked you once why you did not use the pillow, and you said something about not having one, which made no sense to me at the time. I suspect you were sleeping, and do not recall my asking. Perhaps you were referring to the camps, when I doubt you were given a pillow upon which to sleep. Apocalypse, when we were permitted to sleep, required us to do so standing up or lying upon a stone bench (occasionally we were threatened with death so that we learned to wake up quickly). So I understand, I suppose, a bit of that. If you are sleeping, I do hope you are having pleasant dreams, as the expression goes. And if not pleasant, since i know of what you dream, then I hope you do not remember them in the morning.
Yours,
Nathaniel
Rachel--Rachel was just his. She knew who he was. There was no reason for subterfuge. Which meant, he was often at a loss how to behave, with her. It wasn't so much that he wasn't used to being himself, it was just that he wasn't used to people wanting to actually be with him when he was.
Nathaniel knew he was not a good man. Rachel knew it, too. Yet, she was still...interested...in courting his presence in her life. It confounded him, to be quite honest, likely more so than it did Rachel or even her family.
He thought about what she said, how she'd mentioned in their last psychic conversation that perhaps he could email her when he was thinking of her. Which he was, at the moment.
He retired to the study and opened his email. He was going to ask Isobel if she'd changed the background on the computer to be a scantily clad woman. It wasn't him (he had not realized one could change it) and he rather doubted it was either Doug or Pyro.
To: Rachel (R_Grey@x-corp.org)
From: N. Essex (Essex@shield.org)
Subject: Hello
Dear Rachel,
I hope this electronic message finds you well. I am presently taking a break from research, as Miss Chambers is on a date. She recently went out with a young woman who models lingerie (before you accuse me of acquiring this information through devious means, I should amend that she returned home quite late one night last week, rather pissed (drunk; apparently, this slang means "angry" in America, though she was a bit of that, too) and related this tale to me), a career which sounds very scandalous, though I suppose not as scandalous as some modeling one could engage therein (someone has been looking at very interesting pictures on my computer--I shan't mention it to Isobel, but if you find the pictures there, do not think they are mine--apparently the sort of thing by which I am intrigued is illegal to photograph?), and alas, their relationship did not quite last beyond an initial date.
I just re-read that, and it is a frightfully long sentence.
As I was saying, Isobel is out on a date, and I do hope she has found a young woman with a bit more brains about her, as I should not have liked to have had dinner with a lingerie model, unless she was perchance modeling lingerie at dinner? Is this terribly improper? I have had a bit of gin. I am only just teasing, I do not know if my manners could quite handle scantily clad women at the table (that were not you) for dinner. However, of all the terrible things I have had to put up with at dinner, a woman in lingerie would be quite negligible. Have I ever told you what Apocalypse thought was proper dinner behaviour? There were times he would toss food up and make us scramble to fight for it, which I disliked intensely and found rather insulting, so I would merely go hungry. I was usually whipped for that. One simply could not win.
Our work is going well. We have a theory that perhaps, whatever is halting the birth of live mutants, is not so much a lack of an X-Gene but some oddity that is suppressing the activation thereof. We have a rather brilliant idea, but are waiting on samples in order to further postulate a theory. I must say, Rachel, this waiting round for others to attend to my needs in matters of science is quite frustrating. I am following proper procedures and contracting for any samples through legal and SHIELD-recommended means. I have written that sentence approximately one-thousand times, can you tell?
Isobel seems to be less afraid of me. I am still forbidden from looking anywhere she may be standing without a verbal announcement that I am not, in fact, staring at her. I have offered to put pupils in my eyes for her, but apparently, that made me resemble some type of horror-movie creature and she was not keen on the identification, so. I am afraid it is terribly amusing when she becomes vexed at me for forgetting, however, which I am sure shall make you scold me. She asks after you and I tell her you are well.
I hope that your young Anna is behaving herself. Are you still certain she is going to leave X-Corp for Magneto (do not worry, this email is encrypted--Stark's security procedures are laughable. I am, in the interest of fairness, only encrypting my emails to you, as I do not fancy Stark "reading over my shoulder", so to speak.) in the near future? That would be very foolish of her. Perhaps she should consider joining SHIELD, but I have seen the press and we are not regarded all that more favourably than the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants (a horrid name--what was Magneto thinking?)
I hope that you are doing well, and enjoying your work. I realise, Rachel, I am quite unsure what it is you do at X-Corp. Isobel asked me, then chasitised me for not knowing this information. I remarked you were a lingerie model, and then she threw a beaker at me. Which I caught, luckily, though we have broken others (not through antics, through actual chemical reactions). Stark charges us for broken equipment. I have kept the broken bits in a box, and was hopeful on your next visit, you might fix them up for me? I shall take you somewhere nice to dinner with the money I have saved. I am quite unused to having a budget. Working with the programme--Quicken, I believe--would give me a headache if I were able to get one. Isobel tried to help me, but apparently it "freaks her out" that I do not blink. I was not aware I did that.
So, if you would be so kind as to elucidate your job duties to me, I should look less like an "awful, self-absorbed boyfriend" (c.f. Isobel) when next she asks.
Isobel is rather vexing, however, I find--I find I am fond of her, Rachel. In not at all the same way I am fond of you, of course. There was a moment the other day when I realised I would be quite irate if something were to happen to her. I also am quite intent that she be allowed to publish her research, she is very clever, and deserves some sort of recompense (then perhaps she could purchase clothing with more material). I am not, honestly, all that pleased with this. Not with Isobel herself, obvs, but caring what happens to her and wishing her to have success. These things are foreign to me, and not at all welcome. I suppose I shall adjust in time, unless I am strapped back into another machine eradicating the few emotions I seemed to have developed.
(Kidding. I know of no such machine in existence, do not worry.)
I thought of you, the other day. Not in the fashion which I assume you will think (though I have, of course, thought of such things quite often, being a man). I was watching a documentary on Pre-Raphealite painters (they were all quite addicted to opium and rather shady types--did you know this? I knew that one chap, Waterhouse? A bit off his rocker, that one. I suspect he had the clap, as he was very popular with ladies of questionable reputation, and a bit nutters in his dotage) and there was a model, on the programme (one of the artist's models) who quite reminded me of you. Most of the others were rather ingenue types, you know the ones, all wide-eyed innocence and simpering female sorts. There was one, though, who was smirking a bit and looked as if she were about to leap off the canvas, take the paintbrush from the artist, and possibly do him bodily harm. There was something about the way the woman was standing that quite reminded me of you. And she was very lovely, red-headed and fair as you are, and appeared quite dangerous though being very slight, again, as you are. She was staring out of the painting in a very challenging fashion. I paused the programme (I have something called a "TiVo" which allows me to do this, even during a live broadcast--is a fascinating thing, but I cannot fathom how to program it to tape NOVA and shall not ask Isobel, as she would laugh at me) and actually laughed for a moment, thinking the woman on the screen was going to speak to me and say "Nathaniel" in just that way that you do when you are sufficiently annoyed at me. At any rate, I quite missed your company.
I do not believe I have anything else to say. Do feel free to write me back if you wish; I shall be awake. I do believe it is early morning there, yes? Perhaps you are sleeping, now, with your head half-buried beneath your arm and holding the pillow, as you are wont to do, instead of sleeping upon it. I asked you once why you did not use the pillow, and you said something about not having one, which made no sense to me at the time. I suspect you were sleeping, and do not recall my asking. Perhaps you were referring to the camps, when I doubt you were given a pillow upon which to sleep. Apocalypse, when we were permitted to sleep, required us to do so standing up or lying upon a stone bench (occasionally we were threatened with death so that we learned to wake up quickly). So I understand, I suppose, a bit of that. If you are sleeping, I do hope you are having pleasant dreams, as the expression goes. And if not pleasant, since i know of what you dream, then I hope you do not remember them in the morning.
Yours,
Nathaniel