Chapter Text
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It doesn’t start in the little, clinical room at Berkley, staring down the barrel of Robert’s curious eyes. But it’s near enough.
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Groves has done his research. Of course he fucking has. Knows everything there is to know about the man, on paper at least: dangerous political sympathies, numerous sexual conquests before and after his marriage, egotistical sense of self-importance. It all builds together to create an unsavory picture. Exactly who they don’t want heading a project of this magnitude and importance.
He’s not an idiot. He reserves his judgment until actually meeting Oppenheimer. But there's a splinter in the back of his brain, slightly annoying, but easily ignored for a professional like him. Groves knows from years of military service that you don’t have to like someone to work with them.
So, Groves is a little surprised when despite it all, he doesn’t dislike him. Oppenheimer is charming and witty in addition to intelligent. Not like some of the other shrinking violet scientists he’s interviewed. And not even like the sober and solid Dr. Lawrence. He is blasé as he acknowledges his numerous faults, springing lightly to his feet to demonstrate how he’s already a few steps ahead of Groves. That does rankle him. He doesn’t like to be wrongfooted. But Oppenheimer smooths over his irritation with good sense and clear sighted suggestions.
When Groves leaves, with a promise to call when he has considered Oppenheimer’s proposal, the other man shakes his hand, a knowing smile hovering on his lips. Damn him. Groves makes him sweat for a few hours. But only a few. He’s right. They are fucking behind and have no time to waste.
When he calls the man that evening, it’s a woman who picks up the phone, voice sharp over the crackly line.
“Hello.”
Groves can hear the sound of loud sniffling and a whimpering cry in the background.
“Mrs. Oppenheimer. This is Colonel Groves. May I speak to your husband?”
There’s a slight pause and a rustling sound. Then a soft hum.
“Yes, of course,” she says.
There’s some more background noise and then Oppenheimer’s placid voice comes across the line. Like he had been standing there the whole time.
“Colonel. How good to hear from you,” he sounds pleased.
Bastard. Groves thinks. But not entirely uncharitably.
“Oppenheimer.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He’s probably grinning.
“You know what you owe the pleasure to,” Groves says. “We have work to do.”
When he goes to pick the other man up the next day, Mrs. Oppenheimer is standing at the door, looking out at him suspiciously, a sticky baby with wide blue eyes on her hip. He gives her a tight lipped grin as they stand off against each other like gunslingers, waiting for Oppenheimer to appear. Moments later, Oppenheimer approaches with a light suitcase, pressing a kiss to the downy head of his son, exchanging a quick look and kiss with his wife, before following Groves towards the car. He can feel her eyes still on them as he slides the keys into the ignition.
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