Fic: "The Unquiet Affair of Rachel Grey and Nathaniel Essex: Epilogue" Rated MA

[inathunderstorm]

Title: The Unquiet Affair of Rachel Grey and Nathaniel Essex: Epilogue
Author: Sionnain
Character/Pairing: Rachel Grey (Marvel Girl)/Nathaniel Essex (Mr. Sinister)
Rating: MA
Warnings: BDSM themes, some violent sex (consensual).
Summary: In order to save her family and friends from Sinister's machinations, Rachel Grey decides to do something daring and agrees to stay with him for a month's time, in the hopes he'll finally leave her and her family alone for good.
Epiloge: After leaving London, Nathaniel and Rachel spend some time together at Milbury, the estate belonging to Nathaniel's long-dead wife Rebecca.

AN: I've been meaning to post this for a bit. This follows immediately after Chapter 10 of The Unquiet Affair of Rachel Grey and Nathaniel Essex. It can be read on its own, but the backstory is probably helpful. Thanks to Kethlenda and Resolute for the beta!



Epilogue

Rachel had always thought that English country houses were supposed to be elegant, museum-like places where there was no dust on anything and the floors were so polished you could see your reflection. Someone would be standing next to the door with a brochure and a proper British accent, warning in hushed tones about taking pictures with a flash.

That might have been true if said country house was not Milbury. The place was probably gorgeous in its heyday; Rachel could see the hints of former glory in the elegant curves of the house, in the dull gleam beneath tarnished mirrors and the promise of art faded and dull from improper storage. The furniture was covered with thick white cloths turned nearly black with dust, but the few pieces she’d uncovered had been good quality and, beneath the grime, quite elegant.

They were living only in a few rooms, which made Rachel feel like a vagrant or a criminal, and she made it her job to try and put things to right as much as she could. If nothing else, she was getting a lot of practice using her telekinesis. It was nice to use it and feel like she had it under control, instead of constantly feeling her power used her. The Phoenix was mostly quiet; sated by lust and Rachel's not-quite-vanquished fear, it slept glutted on raw emotions, curled up warm back in the reaches of her mind.

When they’d first arrived, Rachel hadn't actually done much of anything. Still in shock over having to tell her family and friends she was vanishing with Mr. Sinister, of all people, she’d been quiet and withdrawn and guilty. She'd spent most of her time sitting in front of the fire wrapped up in a blanket, trying not to think about what they thought of her now. About what she’d done.

She’d been cognizant enough to appreciate that he’d brought blankets from London; the ratted, thin blankets riddled with holes from whatever creature was living in the house smelled moldy and reminded her of the camps. Rachel was used to sleeping on floors with blankets that teased at warmth they never quite provided, but that didn't mean she was going to suffer through that sort of sleeping arrangement voluntarily.

She and Nathaniel spoke little, those first few days. Their interactions were unfailingly polite but brief; she didn't even know where he was sleeping.

Finally, on the fifth day after they'd arrived, he walked into the living room holding what looked to be a riding crop. Rachel looked up at him almost hopefully. The tension between them had been growing steadily, overlaid with her fear and his obvious anger. He informed her in a chilly voice that he wasn't at all pleased that this had happened between them, and that he was going to have to attend to that before they could settle anything else. He’d put his hand in her hair and dragged her bodily to the large, ornate dining room, where the covered furniture looked like ghosts in the darkness.

The day passed in a haze of pain. He forced her to endure more than she thought she could take, and yet, she was addicted to the adrenaline and the release and never once thought about stopping him. Oh, she fought back, when she divined that was what he wanted. She always submitted in the end. There was sex mixed in with the pain, but it was rough and brutal and hurt almost as much as his other inventive torments. Still, every time she thought about him taking her from behind with her face pressed against the wall, his breath hot and furious on her neck and his hand wrapped like a vise in her hair, she went weak in the knees. She'd still come, despite how vicious it had been.

There was something about what he was doing that was for her, too, and even in the midst of everything she was able to realize that. Rachel was able to purge herself of the crushing guilt that she’d betrayed everyone she’d ever known in the most horrible way possible by wanting to stay with him, so that when it was over, she could figure out where to go from here and some plan for her future.

Afterwards, the dining room was riddled with smashed furniture and broken glass. He carried her up the stairs and she had a hazy recollection of him bathing her, his hands gentle. She actually fell asleep lying on top of him with her face buried in his neck, and they both slept until the next evening when the sun was just beginning to fade and the sky was the color of flame.

Rachel fixed up the study that night, righting the furniture and using her powers to dust and clean until things were fresh and shining. It was a pretty room. There were paintings of people long dead, all named Milbury. Rachel wondered which one was Nathaniel's wife. It was her family's home, after all. She couldn't remember if he'd told her that, or if she had gleaned it from his mind.

Maybe if she kept looking, she'd find something interesting. There was something very weird about the thought Nathaniel had been here when the faded photographs were taken; that he had walked through the halls with Rebecca holding his arm, going towards dinner in the same room where he and Rachel had nearly destroyed the furniture with their violent play.

Her project then became both the music room and the room he called the morning room and she called “the blue room with the ugly furniture and the frilly wallpaper.” She managed to clean things but had to take a little break when she discovered a little nest of mice beneath the table.

Nathaniel laughed at her. “Enough power to drown out the sun, and you are afraid of mice?” He was in a much better mood, too, though it sort of disturbed Rachel that she could tell that about him.

“I’m not afraid of them,” Rachel said haughtily, hands on her hips. She glared at him through two pieces of errant hair covering her eyes, blowing at them exasperatedly. “I just don’t think I should have to deal with them. It’s your house.”

He arched a brow at that logic. "Are you asking me to kill the rodents for you, poppet?"

Rachel wondered if maybe she were crazy, that his endearment made her smile. Hell. That was the last thing she had to be worried about. "Can't you just...put them outside or something?"

“So they shall come right back?”

Rachel went into the other room and let him get rid of them, but she thought maybe they should just get a cat or something because somehow that would be less horrible than sending him to kill things. He came back inside and the cloth was empty. Rachel wanted to ask him how he killed them, but she didn't. Instead, she went back to work.

The morning room was nice when she finished, but she still hated the wallpaper. Ugh. Maybe there was something nice beneath it. She started stripping it, using her powers to dissolve the very particles themselves. Maybe with some paint, it would be nice. Or something. It looked, though, like it was plaster. Plain plaster. And she could paint it, maybe, but why? How long were they going to be here, anyway?

Thinking about the future still made her nervous. Rachel levitated in the center of the room, palms out, eyes flashing white. In a little under five minutes, the entire room was stripped of wallpaper and put to rights. At least she'd managed to fix some of the holes in the wall. The place was too big, and honestly, far too decrepit to ever live in, but it was at least...not quite such a mess as it had been before. It was starting to become more of a whole, and less of a damaged shell--

Right. Thanks. I get the comparison.

Nathaniel was watching her from the doorway. He must have sensed her using her powers and come to see. He liked it when she did that, burned hot and bright and dangerous. They didn't get anything else done, the rest of the day.

* * *
There was a town, about thirty miles away. Nathaniel said fifty kilometers, and Rachel laughed at him, until he reminded her that they were in England and no one but "you bloody stubborn Yanks" used the English system. Rachel was noticing things about Nathaniel. How British he was, for one thing, and how completely a man of his time he could be on occasion. He stood up every time she entered a room, but in the sort of distracted way that suggested it was more of a habit than anything else. He always waited for her to start eating, first. He actually pulled out her chair for her at meals.

It was really strange that he had such nice manners, and yet he'd tortured her father. Huh.

The town, Highbury, was small and quaint and looked like the type of place you stopped to take "Scenic English Country Town" pictures if you were in the area. Thatched roof cottages and little stone buildings. Rachel hadn't wanted to leave the house, really, but she thought maybe it would be good to remember that the world did not consist merely of her and Nathaniel and a still-mostly-decrepit English country house.

God. My life is weird.

Rachel went alone. She wondered if Nathaniel was worried she wasn't going to come back. She thought about it, honestly, for a few seconds. She had Nathaniel teleport her about a mile away from the little town, eager to get some exercise. It was a pretty walk. She was in a good mood when she got there. The people were curious but Rachel didn't mind. An American wandering in with no car, pretending to live up at the empty Milbury House--did she expect that they wouldn't be curious? She made sure they forgot her the moment she bid them farewell, of course. No sense starting tongues wagging, when she didn't know how long she'd be there.

There wasn't much to buy in the little town. At least she had money--proper money, too. She'd asked Nathaniel for some, and he'd laughed, but he'd handed her a fair amount when she'd left the house. She didn't think he'd created it himself, but Nathaniel was a genius. If he had, she was sure it would be fine. Besides, she didn't buy a lot. Bread, some fresh milk, and some mutton. That was what people were always eating for dinner, in those romance novels of Kitty's she used to read.

Those had really never done anything for her, those novels. Rachel had read them and found herself somewhat annoyed by the sex scenes. Too romantic. Considering her obvious sexual tastes, that sure made a whole lot of sense.

She bought a lot of cheese, too. They sold a lot of it. And a very nice, heavy English sweater that she thought would look good on Nathaniel. And a warm blanket, made out of Shetland wool, that was impossibly soft to the touch. There was a little pub, and she had lunch there. Listening to the thoughts of the people, their thick country English accents. Talking about lambing and shearing and slaughtering. Things that people did to make a living, when they didn't have to save the world. Or kill to survive. It was nice, really, to think about places like this existing.

They must have existed, too. In her reality. Somewhere beyond the camps and the urban cities, surely there had been farms. People who had lived their whole life, like these people, without seeing a mutant, probably. They were all dead now. Rachel wondered what they had been doing when the world had ended. They must have been surprised, in that split-second before it all faded to nothing. If they'd had time to be surprised.

She wondered if she should feel guilty about their deaths, too. Hadn't she caused them? Inadvertently?

No. Stop it. That's not your fault. It's Kitty's, if it's anyone's, and she doesn't let it bother her. Just stop it right now.

Rachel paid for her lunch and took her bags--they gave her thick burlap sacks to carry things in, and the milk was in real glass bottles--and it was starting to get cold. She tugged the sweater she'd bought for Nathaniel over her head. It was way too big for her, which meant it may fit him. She wondered how on earth he'd found clothes to fit his frame, back when he'd been mortal. He would have still been an imposing man. She wondered if Rebecca had liked that about him. Did Rebecca like to feel a little afraid?

Nathaniel couldn't have been that different.

She started walking. It was growing dark, and God--when it was dark in the country, it was dark. Somewhere in the distance she heard a dog begin to bark. Something brayed. Rachel shivered. She was supposed to send him a mental message when she was ready for him to come back to meet her, but she was still a good half mile away.

The dog barked again. She heard a sharply spoken reprimand--the dog's owner, probably. Rachel started shaking.

Don't you get above yourself, mutie.

Rachel swallowed, huddling in Nathaniel's sweater. She sat, right where she was, on the ground. Just at the edge of the path on the grass. It was only a path because people had walked down it so often and worn away a place to walk. Rachel put her bags beside her and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. The man and the dog passed by, and Rachel shielded herself so she remained unnoticed.

The dog was large; one of those working breeds, all limber and tall enough for a small child to ride upon, if given half a chance. Rachel saw herself, on hands and knees, following obediently after her handler. Hoping, even though she knew it was wrong, for a small bit of praise. The touch of a hand on her, even if just for a second, in kindness.

Maybe that's why I don't want Nathaniel to touch me nicely.

The air smelled like it did back up at the house, when she and Nathaniel would go outside. Sometimes Rachel would look up at the stars--she could see so many, here, unlike New York or London. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. Somewhere, someone had lit a fire. The smoke was thin, wafting tendrils just teasing at her senses. But the smoke reminded her of fires, and that reminded her of death. The velvety night became something alien and evil, instead of comforting.

Rachel buried her face in her sweater. She could smell wool. All she could remember was how people smelled when they were burning.

He found her there an hour later. Shivering and huddled up against the rapidly-descending cold, frozen and unaware of her surroundings.

"Rachel," he said, and his voice was impassive, completely without emotion. "Look at me."

Never look, her inner voice whispered. Never look them in the eye--

Pain shocked through her, like lightning breaking out of the sky, electric and immediate. Rachel's head was bent backwards, his hand in her hair. He slapped the side of her face. Not hard enough to snap her head back, but hard enough to snap her out of it. Wherever she was. Enough for her to give a choked sort of sob and stare at him, wide-eyed. His eyes were a soft crimson glow in the darkness.

The world tilted and blurred, and then they were in the house. She hoped he remembered the bags that were lying by her on the ground next to her.

He took her to his bedroom. Pulled the sweater off--"This is a bit big for you, is it not?"--and Rachel couldn't seem to find words to tell him that it was for him. "Ah," he said, finding the thought amidst her terror. "I see. Thank you, it is very nice. Appears warm, though not warm enough to keep you from shivering as you are."

Nathaniel had a nice voice, Rachel decided, somewhat dazed. It sounded like she imagined brandy tasted. She'd never had brandy. Rachel didn't drink a lot, because it made her emotions more out of control than they already were. She wanted to explain these things, but she couldn't. She was still hearing the dog's bark and the man's snapped chastisement, and smelling fire. Something inside of her began to shut down.

Nathaniel slapped her again. "Would you like me to whip you?" he asked, voice perfectly serene. Rachel had been whipped, before. Before he'd done it to her in his lab, when she'd asked him. Back in the camps, she'd endured it amidst laughing and taunting and rough hands grabbing her breasts while she'd been bound to the post. The men who whipped her were never very good at it. They missed and hit her in the face, a lot. Nathaniel wouldn't do that. He wasn't laughing or taunting. He was watching her calmly, politely. Rachel nodded.

"Yes, please."

He pushed her down on the bed and she went with relief. At the first lash of the belt on her back, she sighed and turned her face into the blanket. Fingers curled into the comforter. Blissful. He knew how to do this right. Fire burned up and down her back in a steady, even, dependable rhythm. It felt so good she wanted to cry. She did; silently, tears running down her face and into her mouth.

Thank you. She was smiling.

"You are welcome," he said, stopping. Rachel could feel it, the snaking caress of his lust. She didn't mind. He was different than the jeering men with their rough hands and sloppy wet kisses. They liked to watch her hurt, liked to hurt her, because she was abased and beneath them.

Nathaniel wanted her because she was strong. His equal. She knew that, because now that the terror was over she could sense it, what he wasn't shielding. She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at him. He was shirtless, and sweating. Rachel had never beaten anyone. She didn't realize how much effort it took.

"It does when it is you," he said. His hair had come loose from his queue and was in his eyes. He needed to shave. Rachel spread her legs slowly. An enticement. She wanted him to climb up on the bed and mount her while she was on her stomach. Hold her by the neck and shove her face into the mattress while he fucked her, hard and rough. She was wet, already, just thinking about it.

Rachel shifted on the bed. Pressed her hips down, rubbed up and down. The covers were bunched a bit beneath her, giving her enough of something to rub against. She was whimpering. "Nathaniel..."

He was watching her. "Yes?"

Was she mewling? Whimpering, definitely. God. Rachel's back was on fire and she was moving faster, rubbing herself against the bed. "Isn't this nice?" she asked him, a bit breathlessly.

"Very much so. That is why I am still over here." His voice was still calm, as pleasant as the shopkeeper who had bid her good day after selling her the sweater.

Rachel used her telekinesis to bring his sweater up from where he'd tossed it on the floor when he'd stripped her. She moved it beneath her, so she was pressing against the wool. It was scratchy and rough and hurt just a little against her swollen, tender flesh. "Ah, this--" she was moving faster, rubbing back and forth, sweat beginning to sting the welts on her back. He hadn't broken her skin. It was sort of amazing that he knew he didn't have to do that. This time. "Ah. Maybe I'll--keep this," she panted, looking back at him again.

He actually smiled at her. "It is a little too big for you," he said pleasantly, dropping the belt.

Rachel paused. "I'm--I'm close, you know," she informed him, moving again, liking the way the pleasure spiked and met the pain and whirled together in soft colors and gentle, peaked edges.

"Are you?"

Nathaniel sounded--was he bored? Rachel huffed and looked forward again, concentrating, focusing on the pain and the slide of wool against her clit, forcing her closer, and--

She should have figured it. The minute she ignored him...

Nathaniel's hand was around her neck. The sweater was gone, and she found herself unable to move or rub or do anything. Oh, she could if she wanted to, really. But she didn't. He squeezed her neck and his hand was in her hair, and she begged for him to stop, but she didn't really want that, either.

It was nice that he understood.

* * *

"Can I have some brandy?"

Rachel was lying on her stomach on the sofa in the morning room. Her back was neatly bandaged, her hair drying from her bath. She was wearing nothing but her clean white bandages, and Nathaniel had draped her new blanket over her. She was warm and drowsy, but not exactly sleepy. Nathaniel was playing the piano, his fingers moving effortlessly over the keys. She didn't recognize what he was playing, but it was nice. He was very good. The sound reminded her of the night she'd heard him playing for the first time. Was that only just a few short weeks ago? It seemed much longer.

"I imagine so, if we have any." Nathaniel's hair was wet, too. He was wearing his new sweater. She'd asked him if he wanted her to wash it--considering what she'd been doing with it--and he'd just smiled at her. The sweater fit him rather well. He looked warm.

Everything seemed warm. Rachel stretched deliciously, feeling her muscles on her back protest in soreness. "Do you know where it is?" Mentally, she began scanning the bottles in the cabinet in the dining room. Dusty and old, labels faded and worn.

"Where you are looking. I did not know you could do that with your telepathy. Remote viewing, I mean."

Rachel heard the sharp note of interest in his voice. She might have been vaguely insulted if she hadn't been so relaxed. He'd sounded more intrigued by that than he had when she'd been naked on his bed, back welted from his belt, writhing and wet and wanting him.

He looked over his shoulder. "During which part of that did I seem disinterested?"

She thought back, to what had happened. Watching his face over her shoulder while he fucked her. Nathaniel's expression hardly ever changed. "The whole thing? You're not--you don't have a lot of facial expressions. There's creepy, mildly annoyed, sardonically amused, and your usual blank stare." She grinned at his expression. "Right now? That's mildly annoyed."

"Only mildly, you think?"

Rachel laughed. "I know that I am more than mildly annoying. I can, however, tell that you are relaxed. So maybe you don't mind so much, right now."

"Then, you should have been able to guess I was not disinterested." He turned back to the piano, resuming his playing.

"Well, I mean, I got that when it mattered," she purred, remembering how good it had felt. His body hard and strong, pinning hers down. Thrusting hard and rough inside of her. Rachel shivered at the sensory memory.

Nathaniel's fingers missed a note. Rachel smiled. His reactions, his emotions--they were subtle. Maybe they always would be. But they were there, and maybe that was all that mattered.

"Why did you want brandy? It is rather vile, I should imagine, most certainly if it has been kept in that cupboard since the last time I had any."

She thought about earlier. "Just wanted to try it. I never have. I seem to be doing a lot of things I usually don't do. Lately." Rachel's fingers traced the pattern in the sofa upon which she lay. "Why is none of this furniture comfortable?"

"Victorians. We did not believe in comfort." He stood up. "I shall see about your brandy, little one."

Rachel watched him move out of the room, the way he walked. She sighed and put her head back down. She was tired. *Nathaniel. I'm starving. Could you get some of that cheese, and the bread--* it occurred to her that maybe he'd left the bags. Then she remembered who he was. Nathaniel Essex would not have forgotten. *From the stuff I bought.*

*Certainly,* came his reply, and Rachel closed her eyes and waited for him to come back. She was starting to get tired, but she really was starving. When he came back, he had a plate of cheese and bread, and two glasses of amber liquid that she surmised was brandy. He placed the plate of food down on the low table between the sofa and his chair. Rachel ate some of the bread and English white cheddar--it was divine--and moved to lean back against the sofa with the blanket around her shoulders. She sipped at the brandy, and winced. It was a rich taste, but strong. Too much for her. Maybe his voice sounded more like whiskey.

Nathaniel sipped at his brandy, and then--was he smoking a pipe? Rachel started giggling. "Um? Are you like, a British aristocrat all of a sudden because we're in this house?"

"No," he said, lifting his chin a bit. "My father was an aristocrat, not I. However, I was obliged to join the post-dinner brandy and cigar--or pipe, if one preferred--gathering in the library. As our library is still rat-infested, the music room shall do." Nathaniel smirked at her around the pipe. Somehow, despite the fact she'd never seen him do this, it seemed very fitting. The smoke was fragrant and thick, spicy with a hint of chocolate.

"You look like Sherlock Holmes," Rachel said, nibbling on a piece of bread. She cocked her head, considering him. She wondered where he was looking.

"Do I? I would have thought Moriarty, myself," he said, giving a low laugh. It made Rachel shiver pleasantly, and then she realized he was looking at her breasts, and the bruises from his hands forming around the sides. For a moment she was disoriented, wondering how she could possibly know that. Then she realized he was showing it to her.

Rachel was oddly touched. It was a lowering of his defenses. His unfathomable eyesight would have been something she could easily use her own powers to figure out, but it was sort of sweet that he made it unnecessary. "Moriarty. Of course. How silly of me." She giggled. "If you were Holmes, then I could be Watson."

"He was a bit of a chump, was he not? I mean, useless, rather, if you think about it logically."

Nathaniel puffed on the pipe. Rachel wondered if he could make smoke rings. She concentrated, forming the smoke into little circles as it rose. "Hee," she said, pleased with herself. "So when you came here, did you smoke pipes in this room? Or, I mean, the rat-infested one?"

"Occasionally. I never much cared for this ritual. I despised politics, and if we were to discuss things of which I had an interest, I either bored the other men to tears, else I infuriated them into trying to throw decanters at me."

Rachel laughed, pushing the plate of cheese away. She took another sip of her brandy. "I'll bet." She held out her hand. "May I?"

He looked confused for a second, then realized what she wanted. "That's not entirely appropriate," he started, and Rachel started laughing.

"I am sitting here naked with bandages covering where you whipped me with a belt--"

"Yes, there is that, but you did ask--" he protested, but handed over the pipe. "Have you any idea how to do this? Faye, she smoked cigarettes. I believe it made her very sick. Perhaps you should not inhale."

"Nathaniel, I know how to smoke a pipe." She raised it to her mouth. "Well. I mean. I inhaled it when I smoked it. But there wasn't tobacco in it."

"What on earth do you smoke in a pipe if not tobacco?"

Rachel looked at him for a long moment. "Nathaniel. You're a genius. Think like one."

"Ah," he said, watching her, his interest sharpened as she took a puff on the pipe and let the smoke fill her mouth. She tried to blow smoke rings herself, but without her powers, she couldn't do it.

He held his hand out, and she passed the pipe back to him. He inhaled again, and blew a perfect set of smoke rings.

"Show off," she said teasingly. Her mouth tasted like the tobacco. "So were Rebecca's family aristocrats, too?"

He thought for a moment. "Of a sort. Landed gentry, very wealthy. I believe Rebecca's father held a titular lordship, at some point."

Rachel stared at him blankly. "Which is...?"

"He bought a title. It was very popular, you see, if you were wealthy. Do well in the merchant class, purchase a title and a country estate, and suddenly you are as blue-blooded as Bonnie Prince Charlie." Nathaniel puffed on the pipe.

Rachel knew, of course, that he'd been alive a long time. But she was suddenly very disoriented, as if she were having conversation with a ghost. Nathaniel's appearance was not nearly as disconcerting as his easy references to his past life. "And your family? Were they--ah, whatever that word was you used?"

"Of course not," he said, a bit stuffily. "My father's title was quite old. Which was all it had behind it, you understand. We were nearly penniless, which is why we sold our country home and moved to Town."

Rachel heard the capital t in the word Town. She'd read a lot of Victorian romances. None of them had red-eyed evil scientists in it that whipped the heroine with his belt, though. Maybe she would have liked them better if they had. "And so you have a title?"

"I suppose, by virtue of being the last living Essex of our line, but it passed to my older brother. I was the youngest of three sons. I should have had to push one of them off a cliff to inherit."

"I heard that happened a lot," Rachel said wisely, sipping her brandy. It was better, the more of it she drank. A bad sign, probably.

"Did you?" He gave her an amused look. "Really? Where did you hear that?"

Amanda Quick novels. "Books," Rachel said vaguely. "So your brother was the oldest, and became Lord--Essex?"

"Northbury, I believe." His brow furrowed. "Would you believe, I cannot recall? I am sure there is some deed, somewhere. At any rate, it would have been my brother. He died with only daughters, so the title must have passed to some relation. My other brother, he never married. My sister never had children, so perhaps it died out, our family title."

"You had a sister?" Rachel wasn't sure why that surprised her, but it did. "Younger?"

"Yes. Her name was Julia. She died when I was still young."

"Geez, all your family died," Rachel said, leaning back against the couch. That hurt her welts, so she leaned forward again.

"Rachel, everyone I knew is dead now," he said blandly, sipping at his own glass of brandy. "A perk of immortality. Outliving everyone who may have possibly annoyed you."

"But you have relatives! I mean, you do," she said defensively, thinking. "Descendants of your siblings. Somewhere. Right?" Her eyes narrowed. "You can't tell me you of all people don't know who they are, where they live. I mean, it's you. Mr. Obsessed-with-bloodlines."

"Yes. I almost took that as my alias, but I thought it too cumbersome." Rachel giggled and he continued. "I did some preliminary research, back in the twenties. Their bloodline was rather unremarkable." He shrugged. "So I pursued it no further."

Rachel tugged the blanket around her shoulders. His words were chilling and effectively killed her earlier amusement. Their bloodline was rather unremarkable. "Not like mine, then."

Nathaniel put his glass down. "No," he said quietly. "Not like yours."

Rachel turned and looked out of the window. It was late. The brandy was making her sleepy, and the thick cloud of tobacco smoke was aromatic and comforting. She lay back down, on her stomach, arranging the blanket to cover her. "My back hurts."

"Mmm," he said, smiling at her around the pipe. "That was the intent."

"Can I take aspirin, with booze?"

"Not too much, or you shall damage your liver," he cautioned, sounding to Rachel very much like a doctor. He must have heard that thought. "I am one. A doctor. If you wish to be technical."

"Then why isn't it Dr. Sinister?" she asked, yawning.

He sighed. "I have attempted to explain that I never did put the mister on there in the first place, but no one believes me."

Rachel smiled. She wanted to ask him more questions. About his life. Before he was even Doctor Essex. What it was like, for him. What his sister was like. If he envied his brothers. She thought Nathaniel was probably quiet, reserved. She imagined him reading, in the corner of a room very much like this one. Two other boys, slightly older, one fair-haired and one dark-haired, wrestling on the floor. It was mid-afternoon and Nathaniel, he was annoyed. That he couldn't read. That they were disturbing him.

"You're being queer, Nathaniel, do stop reading." The eldest boy, dark-eyed and stocky. Not as tall as Nathaniel. "Why cannot you be normal and cease your stupid reading?"

"Yes, do," the younger, fair-haired boy taunted. He was taller than the eldest, but thinner. Too lanky for his body. "You and your bloody books--you are just trying to impress Mr. Jeffries. Right, James?" Obviously seeking approval from the eldest, the tall boy stopped in front of where Nathaniel sat.

The eldest nodded. They were stopping their wrestling, banding together against their youngest brother. It was what siblings did. "Bloody idiot. You are going to be a farmer, and everyone knows it. I am to be the lord, Richard my second, and they'll send you off to war and then you shall work the fields and have a tan."

Nathaniel looked up, finally, from his book. His eyes were a startling bright blue. "I shan't work in the fields, and if Richard is your second, we shall be bankrupt," he said, and Rachel knew that she wasn't seeing some fanciful image but a memory of Nathaniel's childhood. "I am smarter than both of you put together, and I shan't care what you do to me, but I shall keep reading my book."

Rachel watched as they pulled at him, tearing the book away. Two-against-one weren't very good odds. They left him alone after awhile, bored with their sport. Nathaniel had a split lip and a black eye. He couldn't have been more than nine. Rachel watched the way he stood up, brushed his clothes off, put himself back together. "One day, I shall be bigger than they, and they shan't beat me up anymore," he said, turning his head. Rachel thought he was talking to himself, but he wasn't. There was a little girl in the corner, watching. She looked just like Nathaniel; dark hair, bright blue eyes. Julia.

"They are not very nice, N'thaniel," the girl said, his name obviously too much for her to say all at once. She had curly hair wrapped up in a blue ribbon that just matched her eyes. "I like when you read me stories. They are mean and steal my dollies."

"Well then, I shall read to you," Nathaniel said, picking up his book. "Just do not tell them you are clever, Julia, or they shall always be quite horrid that a girl is smarter than they."

The image faded. Rachel opened her eyes. Nathaniel was no longer sitting across from her; he was standing by the window, looking out towards the darkness. "What happened? To Julia."

"She died a few months after that incident I showed you. My brothers were supposed to be watching her, and they wandered off. She drowned in the lake." Nathaniel's voice was still impassive. "My parents were distraught and my brothers were soundly reprimanded. Not punished, of course; though had Julia been a boy, I imagine they would have been. I, however, beat the two of them bloody." She saw his hands, clasped behind his back, flex briefly. A small, almost unnoticeable gesture. "They never bothered me again."

His story almost made her want to cry. But she didn't. Nathaniel had done a lot of horrible things to other people. Her family. One sad tragedy did not make him worthy of tears. Think of how many he'd perpetrated against other people. Her people.

He looked over his shoulder at her. He looked--well. Sinister, for lack of a better word. She remembered the vibrant blue of his eyes, from his shared memory. They were swallowed by crimson now, and it was a reminder. He wasn't that little boy anymore. "Now, you begin to understand, I think."

Rachel stood up, walked over to where he was standing. She stood next to him, but she didn't touch him. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think I do." She placed her hand lightly on his back. He tensed immediately, but he didn't move away.

It was a start.

* * *

Rachel had found the door to the attic at the end of the hallway on the third floor. It was up a long flight of stairs, and it was creepy and she kept trying to get her nerve up to open the door. She actually did, once, and the creaking noise it made was so loud and scary that she'd jumped back and shrieked and felt stupid. And then hadn't gone up there for another week.

It was just...Rachel was beginning to think she wasn't cut out for pastoral living. She and Nathaniel couldn't have sex all the time, because she needed time to heal after they were intimate. So sometimes she took walks, and went down to the lake, and most of the time she explored the house and tried to fix it up. She wondered if they could hire someone to keep it up, when they left. If they left.

The uncertainty of all of this wasn't bothering Rachel as much as it should. She was so tired of always worrying about the future. There was no reason to do that with Nathaniel, because he couldn't die. Rachel wondered if he understood that so much of her attraction to him was his immortality. And the fact he was never going to be worth martyrdom. That was the thing she couldn't explain to her family, either.

Well. Maybe that wasn't the sum of her attraction to him. She'd found him shaving that morning, shirtless, leaning over the bathroom sink. He shaved with a straight razor, which Rachel had never seen before except in movies. She'd leaned against the doorframe and watched him running the blade over his pale skin. There was something so erotic about that. She'd wanted to ask him to tie her down and do that to her, drag that razor over her racing pulse.

He'd met her gaze in the mirror and smiled. "Later," he'd said, and she'd shivered. Smiled back.

Now she was in the attic, to hopefully pass some time before Nathaniel made good on that smile he'd given her. There were a lot of trunks. Most of them covered in dust. She tried to open a few before she closed her eyes and vanished all the dust. Good. That was much easier. Rachel lost track of time as she went through the trunks, looking at pictures--those that were not too faded to see. There were ridiculous moth-eaten clothes, and a lot of furniture, and newspapers and songbooks, of all things.

The light coming in made the shadows look strange and alien. Rachel went and opened one last trunk, and she saw a picture in a frame streaked with dirt. She was able to use her powers to clean it pretty easily. She realized in a matter of seconds that she was looking at Nathaniel. He had still been an abnormally tall man, even before Apocalypse, and he had that same low ponytail and intense stare even in the picture. His hand was resting on the shoulder of a woman, seated next to him.

Rebecca.

Rachel had seen vague impressions of Nathaniel's wife, from his memories. She was a pretty woman, with dark hair and wide, large eyes. Tall--not as tall as him--but taller than was in fashion for women of her time. Close to Rachel's height. She looked, to Rachel, like she was in one of those old-fashioned photos you could get at theme parks and for souvenirs in small touristy towns. She was smiling. Maybe not very much, but compared to everyone else's sombre expressions, it was almost like grinning. She looked a little mischievous. Lively. When Rachel had glimpses of the man Sinister had been when he'd just been Essex, she didn't think of him as particularly jovial.

She thought about Faye. Nathaniel had pictures of her, still, because it wasn't that long ago, and she'd seen them in his house in London. Faye had short blonde hair, lips that were too red, smoky makeup. Her dress had been very short. She'd looked just like what Rachel had always imagined a flapper from the twenties would. Nathaniel, looking like his alias Nathan Essex, had been in the picture too. He looked just serious as he did in the picture with Rebecca. Just the same as he did most of the time, now.

Rachel called him Nathaniel because she absolutely refused to call him an adjective for a name, but she didn't think Nathaniel was the same person as he was back in the picture with his wife. Rachel looked at the picture. Rebecca was beautiful. Dark-haired, body as wispy as a willow. Faye had been smaller than Rachel. A boyish figure with small eyes and a crooked front tooth. A radio comedian who talked too loudly, laughed a lot.

Her, Rachel.

What did they have in common?

Rachel touched her fingers to Rebecca's picture. Suddenly, she had a sharp image of the woman lying on the floor. Lovely eyes gone wide with horror. Blood soaking her dress. A look of utter betrayal twisting her pretty features into something ugly.

She saw Faye, sobbing, running out into a storm to get away from something that was terrifying her. Slipping and falling in a sodden heap in the grass.

"It is not what you have in common," he said quietly, from the doorway. "It is how you are different."

Rachel looked up, unsurprised to find him there. He looked taller, from where she sat on the ground, which was disconcerting given his height. "I know. You can't break me. You can try but it won't work. You broke them." She shook her head. "Can't you show me something nice, that you remember?"

"I suppose. It does not matter." He walked over to where she was standing. Looked down at the picture of his dead wife. "She was very lively. She used to drive me mad. I would try to work, and she would sit in my lap and tug on my hair and tell me to stop glowering." His face did not change expression as he spoke. "Faye was the same. We used to go to parties. I would loathe them. She would put her arm around my waist and tell me amusing stories about the other people who were there."

Rachel wasn't sure what this meant, what he was telling her. "You loved her. Rebecca." Something became immediately clear to her. "When she died, you took Apocalypse's offer because you were heartbroken and guilty."

"Perhaps. I no longer remember."

Rachel didn't believe him. "I am a walking ball of emotions," she said bluntly. "Maybe I'm not lighthearted like Rebecca or funny like Faye. But maybe you just like women who aren't afraid to show emotions." She stood up, handing him the picture. "Do you want this?"

"No. I recall what she looked like well enough."

Rachel nodded and put it back in the trunk. She shut it tight. "I was just trying to figure out what your type was." She looked at him warily. He looked the same as always, but something about his posture screamed he didn't want to be touched. Rachel didn't care. She wasn't interested in his thoughts on the matter. She pressed herself against him, noticing how his entire body tensed in reaction.

His hands rested on her waist. "I do not have a type."

"Sure you do. Nathaniel, I don't believe you went--how long was it, since Faye? Eighty years or whatever? I don't believe you went that long without sex." She knew she was bothering him. Invading his personal space. She still didn't care.

"Of course not. There are ways to fulfill that particular need which do not require the effort of courting."

That made her laugh, because it was such an old-fashioned way to say it. "Uh huh. Did you, what? Hire prostitutes?"

He shrugged. "Possibly, a few times. I do have telepathic powers and am very good at persuasion."

Rachel went still. "You telepathically forced women to have sex with you?"

"Of course not," he said, a bit stiffly. "I merely ascertained what they wanted from a sexual partner and altered my physical appearance to be what they wanted."

That seemed like the same thing to her. "But you have...sort of particular tastes, Nathaniel."

"You are not the only woman who shares my particular tastes," he murmured. He was beginning to walk her backwards. Rachel allowed it, moving skillfully backwards, until she felt the sharp brick beneath her back. "Though that was a bit harder to come by, admittedly." He started kissing her neck.

Rachel gasped and tilted her head, her hands grasping at his shoulders. "Did they like it? Faye, Rebecca?"

"No. I suppose Faye did, in part. She liked things she would not admit to, I imagine. I could tell, even when she was afraid." Nathaniel's mouth was pressed against her pulse. "Rebecca did not."

"Then how did you--" Rachel moaned as he bit her, sudden and sharp, the pain a delicious rush in her blood and a sting behind the eyes--"how did you manage to figure it out? What did you do if your wife didn't like it?"

Nathaniel raised his head and smiled at her darkly. "That, we did have prostitutes for. They cost a bit more, but they would allow such things. Some of them may have even liked it."

He lowered his head and began kissing her throat, his hand sliding beneath her sweater. His skin was cold against hers.

"That's totally demented," Rachel gasped, squirming. "And, by the way, cheat on me and I'll melt your fucking brain, Essex."

"Mmm. You are very attractive when you threaten me with bodily harm. And I shan't go to prostitutes or other women. Now I have you." He looked up, then shoved her back against the wall, hard. Too hard. His hands grabbed at hers and pinned them against the wall, above her head. "Do I not?"

Rachel was having a hard time breathing. She couldn't understand the tone beneath his smooth voice, and it was hard to read his expression without being able to see anything save red in his eyes. He was sending some mixture of lust and possessiveness and something else, something fragile and faint, and Rachel looked at him for a long moment before she nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "Now you have me."

He looked as if he were going to speak, but instead, he bit her on the neck. Rachel screamed. And then they stopped talking.

* * *

"I want to go back to London."

"Keep your head tilted and stop moving, else I shall box your ears," Nathaniel said severely. He was applying something to the bite he'd left on her neck. He'd broken the skin. It hurt like hell. Rachel kept wanting to press on it. He was being annoying and insisting on cleaning it and bandaging it properly.

"Yes, Dr. Essex," she said, rolling her eyes, and yelped when he pinched her upper arm, hard. "Ow! Okay, I'm not moving."

"Good girl." He patted her on the head. Rachel sort of hated the warm rush of pleasure his approval gave her. Oh, well. This was what it was, and she wasn't going to pretend she didn't like the things she liked. She was finished with self-denial for the moment. "And you are certain?" Nathaniel asked, fingers oddly gentle against her neck. "Your family shall be a bother, you realize."

"Essex, it's only fair. Maybe you should see how you like having the Summers family bothering you for once."

He looked briefly startled, then laughed. It was an honest laugh, too. Low and warm. If she'd not been insanely sated from what they'd just done in the attic, she may have wanted to have sex with him just for that laugh. It was nice to be attracted to things other than the way he hurt her. Nice, but sort of frightening, too.

"I suppose that is true. However, I have ended up with you, vexing woman, and that is likely their revenge."

Rachel used her telekinesis to throw a paperweight from the desk at his head. He reached up and caught it with preternatural speed and smirked at her. She scowled, and he kissed her. It was a nice kiss, too. For them, anyway. No one bit. That qualified as nice, to her.

Mollified, she let him finish bandaging her neck. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his back was streaked with blooded scratches already healing. Rachel gave as good as she got. "So, London? I'm not cut out for gentry living, Nathaniel."

"London it is, then." He finished with the bandages. "We can leave now, if you like."

She bit her lip. "Could we...um. Your house, it's...ah. I was wondering if maybe we could get another one."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You wish us each to have our own?"

Sometimes his understanding of things was frighteningly literal. Rachel shook her head, smiling a little. "No, I just...maybe one that's just ours. Not your house. Our house?" She felt stupid.

He didn't seem to find the question strange. He just shrugged. "As you wish."

There was probably something nice about being with someone without any emotions. Though she didn't really think that was true, anymore. Maybe Apocalypse's modifications were beginning to wear thin. Maybe one day he'd wake up and have them all back. Maybe one day he'd be Nathaniel Essex again, instead of Sinister.

That wouldn't be all bad, Rachel thought carefully. I could deal with that.

He was watching her. If he heard her thoughts, he did not respond to them. He stood up, taking the used bandage wrappers and the cream he'd put on her neck with him. "Your family will try and kill me," he said honestly.

"They'll have to get over it," Rachel said, standing up. She touched her fingers idly to her neck. Pressed against the bandage.

Nathaniel laughed. "They shan't, and Rachel, do stop poking that bandage, else I shall tie your arms behind your back."

"I could always disintegrate the restraints," she said, rather brattily, and he tilted his chin up towards the ceiling. His version of rolling his eyes, since she couldn't see his pupils.

"I shall just tie them again. I have endless amounts of patience," he said, leaning against the wall. He was smiling. Relaxed. In that moment, despite his odd appearance, he looked more human in than Rachel had ever seen him.

"That's probably going to be a good thing," she said, smiling.

Rachel looked outside. Dark had fallen. They could leave for London in the morning. The future, and whatever it meant for the two of them, would come with the daylight. That was good enough for her.

~Fin