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Groves swirls the whiskey in his glass, raising it to his dry lips. It’s cold on the porch of Robert’s small house. Not quite winter yet, but the nights give a glimpse of the frigid weather to come. The desert is obscured by the other houses and the sad, limp line of laundry in front of him.
Robert's head is cocked, face poised and still, looking up at the blanket of stars. A gust of wind slaps them abruptly in the face. Groves clenches his hand around his glass. Robert looks tired, eyes fluttering closed against the sharp air. They are all tired. Groves is fucking exhausted. The muscles in his shoulder are tight and thick with tension. His heart is beating a little too fast, mind racing towards the next deadline. He doesn’t know the last time he was relaxed. Maybe never.
Beside him, Robert pulls in a quiet, smooth breath. He blinks his eyes open, brighter and clearer than the perfect desert sky on a fine day. It’s like Groves isn’t even there next to him. Like he’s seeing something else entirely in the heavens above. Something only he understands. He probably fucking is.
His slight shoulders rise and fall as Groves watches him, safe in the knowledge that he’s about as important to the other man right now as the wicker furniture behind them. Robert isn’t seeing him. Isn’t noticing him. Is lost somewhere in his irritatingly vast mind.
Their debriefing has been over for some time. Even Robert’s drink is finished, the martini glass still poised in his delicate fingers. Their conversation had petered out, exhaustion and irritation tingeing their discussion. They often talk at cross purposes. Robert waxes poetic about things Groves only has a tenuous grasp on at best, Groves aggressively brings him back to earth with the rest of the plebeians. Groves is a man of action. A planner. A mover. Not Robert. Lost in his head at the drop of a hat.
But he’s effective. Frighteningly brilliant. Even if he’s blind as a bat to how the world really works. Bulldozing his way along. Blasé about danger. Walking a tightrope he doesn’t realize he’s on. Carelessly discarded women in his wake. The fucking United States Government dogging his steps because of his reckless and naive political leanings.
Groves shudders, the wind cutting through his coat like a knife as he contemplates what it would have been like for him if he had ever acted like that. Acted on his desires. His stomach tightens with anxiety and sudden anger grips him as he looks at the other man. It doesn’t bear thinking about. You can’t just act on whatever you want. You fucking can’t. You do your fucking duty. Serve your fucking country. Save the fucking world. You don’t always get what you want.
And yet here Robert stands. Looking at the sky like it holds some kind of fucking answer. Doing whatever the fuck he wants. Robert’s cheeks are pink from the cold, eyes starting to water as another gust of wind rushes past, ruffling his short hair.
Groves shifts on his feet, fingers going numb as he holds his almost empty glass dumbly in one hand. It’s late. And he’s still here. Tired as fuck. Restless. Silent. Watching. While the man across from him is somewhere else. Somewhere Groves can’t get to him. It makes him feel unbalanced.
Groves wonders vaguely if this is what his women see when they look at him. The shape of him. Small and light like a bird. The lines of his face sharp. His eyes and mouth surprisingly womanish. Groves could push him down to the ground with the littlest of effort. It wouldn’t even take a punch. He can practically feel the squirm of his delicate wrists under his own blunt fingers. The thought makes his heart lurch and stomach squirm. Disgust. Except it isn’t. It isn't anything like disgust. But it still melds with the feeling and lodges inside of him. Where it always does. Where those thoughts are always supposed to go. Never spoken of. Never acted upon. His wedding ring is cold and heavy on his finger. The pits of his shirt warm with a little sweat, making him shiver again in the nippy air.
There’s a creak of wood. Groves turns his head sharply, taking in Kitty’s beautiful, pinched face. He opens his mouth to speak, eyes darting over her sour, complicated expression. They stand staring at each other. Groves feels his cheeks heating. I didn’t do a goddamn thing. Just fucking looked, He thinks mutinously.
Kitty lifts the corner of her mouth, eyes softening. She nods gently at him, moving out onto the porch to join them.
“Robert,” she says quietly, finally breaking the spell Oppenheimer has been under for the last few minutes. Or however long they have been out here. Groves doesn’t fucking know anymore.
Oppenheimer turns, eyes opening, features arranging themselves into a human expression. His eyes warm as they alight on his wife.
“It’s late,” she says simply, reaching out to touch his thin wrist, taking the martini glass.
“Of course,” he replies, voice gravelly. He turns to Groves. “My apologies for my abstraction, Groves.”
Groves tosses back the dregs of his whisky, waving his free hand, aware of Kitty’s eyes back on him like a searchlight.
“We are all tired, Oppenheimer. I was falling asleep where I stood.”
The other man hums, turning away from the stars and towards the house. It’s warmer inside. Realer. Feeling starts to come back into his cold fingers and numb cheeks.
“Goodnight,” Kitty says to him with a slight smile. He wonders if he’s imagining the familiarity in her expression. Something he’s never seen there before. He must be.
Oppenheimer walks him to the door, opening it to the thin air of the desert welcoming him back. For a wild moment, he thinks of clapping the other man on the back. He shakes the thought off immediately. He doesn’t do that. Not without a room full of others. He’s back to earth now too. Instead, he gives Oppenheimer a curt nod, walking out into the night.
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