(no subject)
TITLE: Indefinite Variables, pt 1, pt 2, part 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7 (COMPLETE).
RATING: PG-13 for language.
AUTHOR: johnwilmot
CHARACTERS: Eugene Morrow/Robert Capa (GATTACA/Sunshine crossover!)
WORD COUNT: ~6000 and not finished!
DISCLAIMER: Characters/movies not mine, no profit being made, etc.
WARNINGS: Spoilers if you haven't seen GATTACA - which, if you haven't, GO NOW. Change in the ending of it. Takes place before the launch of Icarus II. Also, I haven't posted a fic of any sort in years upon years, but this idea just struck me, so if you read, please comment!
SUMMARY: In the not-so-distant future, man has all but perfected his own genetic code, essentially ruling out the possibility of error. Or so they thought. A mission has failed. Eugene Morrow takes in the young trainee Robert Capa as he prepares for any further mistakes.
Two months into his time under Eugene's roof, Capa's presence began to be more noticeable. Eugene could distinctly detect the smell of his deodorant, always woke up when he heard the shower running, before the sun even came up, and heard him going through the usual morning motions before leaving for his daily training. He had been a spotless houseguest in those first several weeks, the church mouse that Eugene barely noticed, enough that they hardly said a word to one another. He had complained to Irene early on that he distinctly didn't want a chatterbox bothering him, but it was actually quite the opposite; Capa was like a stubborn clam at the best of times, as if making idle conversation was not part of his genetic code, difficult for him to process. Enough time around Vincent's kind had taught him a thing or two about scientists, mathematicians and the like, but there were extremities to Capa that left Eugene curious, gave him a wary sort of respect for him despite all his efforts to the contrary. The dedication was different from that of the others, and similar only to one other person he had known. And yet while he seemed more at home with his algorithms and his books, there always seemed something missing. Eugene had caught him chatting once or twice with family over video chat, had listened from the room below, but even then it seemed forced, like the underlying affection was difficult to unearth, like it would take putting Capa under a microscope to really identify everything he was feeling in there.
Naturally this made Eugene all the more interested, as he'd had experience with diminutive details thanks to his work with Vincent, enough that he had an eye for them. Therefore he noticed the little traces of Robert Capa's existence in his little condo; a shirt absent-mindedly left on the back of a couch, a cup with a lip impression near the sink, a notebook left open, filled to the brim with calculations beyond his comprehension, along with curious little sidenotes, strangely human comments, almost as if he were recording idle thought processes in order to keep his head from caving from the weight of it all. It was proof that the man wasn't simply robotic, hadn't been grilled and trained past all identity, and it made Eugene a little frustrated, on his more bored days, that he couldn't climb up the stairs and peruse the man's personal book collection and whatever else he kept to himself up there.
Just as he noticed these things, he noticed the distinct change of mood when Capa returned home one evening, slinging his bag carelessly onto the couch and running a hand through his pulled-back hair, staring off toward the setting sun with a smothered sigh. His hand was on his hip, a tell-tale sign of agitation, Eugene had come to learn, and he eyed him from his wheelchair not too far off from the window.
"Rough day, honey?" He said sarcastically, sucking in his cigarette and exhaling, watching him closely. Capa sighed again and averted his eyes - tell-tale sign that he wanted to avoid a topic, Eugene noted. Which meant he wanted to press it.
"Troubles with the mission?" Irene had stopped by a few days earlier, one of her routine check-ups, as well as to check to see how the two were getting on. Apparently Capa's work hadn't been suffering, so she seemed satisfied enough with the arrangement she had managed, had maybe even given a flicker of a smile that Eugene was sure he hadn't seen since before Vincent's death. Declared death. But something had urged her away quite suddenly, back to GATTACA well past her usual hours with expediency that made Eugene suspicious, and he hadn't heard a thing since. Not that he had exactly been tracking details.
"It's Mace," Capa said finally, as if it were a great chore to divulge the information. "The mechanic on our team. He has some kind of... issue with me." He shifted his weight, crossed his arms, leaned against the kitchen's counter. And, finally, turned his eyes to Eugene, waiting for some kind of response, as if dismissal would put an end to his confessions there and then. It was almost as if he expected it. Clearly talking about his problems wasn't a regular occurrence.
Eugene tapped ash into a nearby ashtray, letting the thoughts roll over for a moment. "Mechanic, hm? I think we both know men like that aren't exactly engineered to be the brains of the operation."
Capa scoffed, although he didn't seem to disagree. "Yeah, well. There's something about me - just me - that sets him off. I try to avoid him and it's like he seeks me out to take shit out on me." The sun shone in with one last glimmer as it slipped lazily down under the sheets of the horizon, and with that flicker Eugene finally caught a glimpse of it - Capa's jaw was swollen. He watched it tense as Capa's teeth ground reflexively and his eyes averted again. Obviously there was more to this story than he was telling.
"Come here," Eugene said after a beat, wheeling over to the kitchenette and opening a cabinet, taking out the scotch and pouring two glasses, adding ice to water it down. Capa grunted some kind of refusal at first, but when Eugene wheeled over to him, green eyes staring into blue, his tone rough as he insisted - "Take it", - the physicist finally relented, the glass pressed into his hands. Eugene took the first sip.
"Sounds like typical male ego mixed with some sense of authority," he said casually, eyeing the swelling on Capa's cheek. "Let me guess - is he military?"
At this, Capa laughed, the quiet sort that didn't want to give away too much that Eugene was growing used to, a sort of prize when he actually drew it out of him. "He is, yeah."
Eugene raised his glass. "God bless our troops," he said with an impish grin. "The new Aryan race, grown up and spit out precisely to show off brute strength and simultaneously make arses out of the entire species." And, better still, Capa laughed again, the slightest lace of guilt for taking part in the mocking of a potential crewmate, and yet clearly also the appreciation for Eugene's siding with him, the slow ebbing away of whatever resentment Capa had sensed he held for him. He wasn't sure whether it was because he was tied to a project that he didn't believe in, or because of the death of Jerome Morrow, or just a general embitterment toward his fellow man, but Capa was glad to see it waning some, especially after a day of unpleasant human interaction. He even knocked back the scotch with Eugene's next sip, wincing a little as it went down, which earned a laugh from his flatmate.
"Sit," Eugene instructed, pointing to one of the chairs and setting his still-burning cigarette down in its assigned ashtray. Capa did so, curiously, nursing his glass and watching the crippled man as he wheeled himself around the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of scotch and holding it between his legs, opening and closing the freezer and returning to his side. Capa was growing used to watching him struggle with tasks that were menial for most people - and really, "struggle" was an underestimation, because the man could be downright quick when he wanted to be (late-night, drunken incidents of wheeling and banging on the bathroom door shouting that he 'needed to piss' sprang to mind).
When the man returned, he first unscrewed the bottle, topping off his and Capa's drinks and then taking the cigarette back in hand, taking a long drag and blowing smoke away from the physicist's face. Smoking, too, was something he seemed to have gotten down to a science, or so it seemed to Capa. This was further proven as he picked up the ice pack, wrapped in cloth, and pressed it to Capa's swollen jaw, the cigarette propped expertly between his second and third finger as he did so, smoke wafting upward, particles mingling and disappearing into the air.
"You're going to have to get used to people being jealous of you," he said matter-of-factly as he held the pack there, Capa too stunned to even flinch from the cold, only staring at him and wondering if the scotch had hit his empty stomach quicker than he'd thought. "They thought that making everyone at their genetic best would eliminate envy, but there's always something to be envious of." For a long moment their eyes met, Capa trying to read what was behind pale green ones just as much as Eugene had been trying to read him for the past few months. And yet while Capa's gaze was unintentionally stony, secured by defenses and a sort of uniform expression that he had applied in his lack of social finesse, Eugene's seemed to offer something, some sort of solace or camaraderie or something else complex that Capa had yet to sort, categorise and properly analyse. He had not yet solved for x, nor was he even sure what the equation was.
And then the moment was gone, and Eugene lowered the pack, examining the wound. "Looks better," he said satisfactorily, setting it aside and taking a drag from the cigarette. "Drink up," he nodded toward the glass. "It'll take the edge off." He turned himself around in his wheelchair, looking out toward the setting sun, the darkening sky, finishing his glass with ease while Capa already felt somewhat light-headed. He knew the man kept expensive variety to suit his excessive tastes, and he certainly didn't usually take the time to indulge - the job more or less didn't allow for it - but feeling so loose so soon was still a surprise.
"Do you think it gets sick of it?" Eugene broke the silence, cigarette smoke rising from between his fingers, elbow rested on the arm of his chair, his eyes on the receding sun. "The same old thing every day. The moon, the Earth, everything leeching off of its light. Must get fairly boring. Maybe it all just feels futile after all this time."
Capa lowered his glass, staring out at the orange-red glow. "'Even after all this time, the Sun never says to the Earth, 'you owe me'. Look what happens with a love like that. It lights up the whole sky.'" The recitation was short, understated - as almost everything about Capa was - and Eugene turned to look at him.
"Hafiz," Capa explained, smiling in that nearly-embarrassed way around the rim of his glass, the worry lines in his youthful face for once eased. He seemed impossibly young to Eugene in that moment, with his hope and his idealism and his persistence, despite firm logic, despite how hard he pushed himself and how dependent on solid answers he was.
"Very romantic," he commented with his own smile as he turned back to the sunset, the stars slowly twinkling in the sky. There were no daily launches anymore, not with the priority of the Icarus projects at hand, and for some reason that made things peaceful. Capa was rarely home this early anyway, nevermind reciting poetry, a sort of romanticism Eugene hadn't even expected the man to be capable of. It was a blissful moment, unintruded, a sort of gradual collision of the particles between them, the cellular structure of their fragile connection becoming that much more solid, clinging and latching in some unique way.
The moment wouldn't last. The intercom interrupted them, breaking through the silence that had settled in like a layer of dust. "Eugene." It was Irene. Her voice was frantic. "Eugene, I'm coming in."
Both men turned to look at the blonde as she hurried down the stairs. Usually so composed, prim as a plastic doll fitted for GATTACA's manoeuvrings, she was a more human Irene now, a reflection of the Irene that had allowed herself to sob quietly at the gradual and faded loss of Vincent's ship. "It's Icarus I." She said. "We've lost communication."
RATING: PG-13 for language.
AUTHOR: johnwilmot
CHARACTERS: Eugene Morrow/Robert Capa (GATTACA/Sunshine crossover!)
WORD COUNT: ~6000 and not finished!
DISCLAIMER: Characters/movies not mine, no profit being made, etc.
WARNINGS: Spoilers if you haven't seen GATTACA - which, if you haven't, GO NOW. Change in the ending of it. Takes place before the launch of Icarus II. Also, I haven't posted a fic of any sort in years upon years, but this idea just struck me, so if you read, please comment!
SUMMARY: In the not-so-distant future, man has all but perfected his own genetic code, essentially ruling out the possibility of error. Or so they thought. A mission has failed. Eugene Morrow takes in the young trainee Robert Capa as he prepares for any further mistakes.
Two months into his time under Eugene's roof, Capa's presence began to be more noticeable. Eugene could distinctly detect the smell of his deodorant, always woke up when he heard the shower running, before the sun even came up, and heard him going through the usual morning motions before leaving for his daily training. He had been a spotless houseguest in those first several weeks, the church mouse that Eugene barely noticed, enough that they hardly said a word to one another. He had complained to Irene early on that he distinctly didn't want a chatterbox bothering him, but it was actually quite the opposite; Capa was like a stubborn clam at the best of times, as if making idle conversation was not part of his genetic code, difficult for him to process. Enough time around Vincent's kind had taught him a thing or two about scientists, mathematicians and the like, but there were extremities to Capa that left Eugene curious, gave him a wary sort of respect for him despite all his efforts to the contrary. The dedication was different from that of the others, and similar only to one other person he had known. And yet while he seemed more at home with his algorithms and his books, there always seemed something missing. Eugene had caught him chatting once or twice with family over video chat, had listened from the room below, but even then it seemed forced, like the underlying affection was difficult to unearth, like it would take putting Capa under a microscope to really identify everything he was feeling in there.
Naturally this made Eugene all the more interested, as he'd had experience with diminutive details thanks to his work with Vincent, enough that he had an eye for them. Therefore he noticed the little traces of Robert Capa's existence in his little condo; a shirt absent-mindedly left on the back of a couch, a cup with a lip impression near the sink, a notebook left open, filled to the brim with calculations beyond his comprehension, along with curious little sidenotes, strangely human comments, almost as if he were recording idle thought processes in order to keep his head from caving from the weight of it all. It was proof that the man wasn't simply robotic, hadn't been grilled and trained past all identity, and it made Eugene a little frustrated, on his more bored days, that he couldn't climb up the stairs and peruse the man's personal book collection and whatever else he kept to himself up there.
Just as he noticed these things, he noticed the distinct change of mood when Capa returned home one evening, slinging his bag carelessly onto the couch and running a hand through his pulled-back hair, staring off toward the setting sun with a smothered sigh. His hand was on his hip, a tell-tale sign of agitation, Eugene had come to learn, and he eyed him from his wheelchair not too far off from the window.
"Rough day, honey?" He said sarcastically, sucking in his cigarette and exhaling, watching him closely. Capa sighed again and averted his eyes - tell-tale sign that he wanted to avoid a topic, Eugene noted. Which meant he wanted to press it.
"Troubles with the mission?" Irene had stopped by a few days earlier, one of her routine check-ups, as well as to check to see how the two were getting on. Apparently Capa's work hadn't been suffering, so she seemed satisfied enough with the arrangement she had managed, had maybe even given a flicker of a smile that Eugene was sure he hadn't seen since before Vincent's death. Declared death. But something had urged her away quite suddenly, back to GATTACA well past her usual hours with expediency that made Eugene suspicious, and he hadn't heard a thing since. Not that he had exactly been tracking details.
"It's Mace," Capa said finally, as if it were a great chore to divulge the information. "The mechanic on our team. He has some kind of... issue with me." He shifted his weight, crossed his arms, leaned against the kitchen's counter. And, finally, turned his eyes to Eugene, waiting for some kind of response, as if dismissal would put an end to his confessions there and then. It was almost as if he expected it. Clearly talking about his problems wasn't a regular occurrence.
Eugene tapped ash into a nearby ashtray, letting the thoughts roll over for a moment. "Mechanic, hm? I think we both know men like that aren't exactly engineered to be the brains of the operation."
Capa scoffed, although he didn't seem to disagree. "Yeah, well. There's something about me - just me - that sets him off. I try to avoid him and it's like he seeks me out to take shit out on me." The sun shone in with one last glimmer as it slipped lazily down under the sheets of the horizon, and with that flicker Eugene finally caught a glimpse of it - Capa's jaw was swollen. He watched it tense as Capa's teeth ground reflexively and his eyes averted again. Obviously there was more to this story than he was telling.
"Come here," Eugene said after a beat, wheeling over to the kitchenette and opening a cabinet, taking out the scotch and pouring two glasses, adding ice to water it down. Capa grunted some kind of refusal at first, but when Eugene wheeled over to him, green eyes staring into blue, his tone rough as he insisted - "Take it", - the physicist finally relented, the glass pressed into his hands. Eugene took the first sip.
"Sounds like typical male ego mixed with some sense of authority," he said casually, eyeing the swelling on Capa's cheek. "Let me guess - is he military?"
At this, Capa laughed, the quiet sort that didn't want to give away too much that Eugene was growing used to, a sort of prize when he actually drew it out of him. "He is, yeah."
Eugene raised his glass. "God bless our troops," he said with an impish grin. "The new Aryan race, grown up and spit out precisely to show off brute strength and simultaneously make arses out of the entire species." And, better still, Capa laughed again, the slightest lace of guilt for taking part in the mocking of a potential crewmate, and yet clearly also the appreciation for Eugene's siding with him, the slow ebbing away of whatever resentment Capa had sensed he held for him. He wasn't sure whether it was because he was tied to a project that he didn't believe in, or because of the death of Jerome Morrow, or just a general embitterment toward his fellow man, but Capa was glad to see it waning some, especially after a day of unpleasant human interaction. He even knocked back the scotch with Eugene's next sip, wincing a little as it went down, which earned a laugh from his flatmate.
"Sit," Eugene instructed, pointing to one of the chairs and setting his still-burning cigarette down in its assigned ashtray. Capa did so, curiously, nursing his glass and watching the crippled man as he wheeled himself around the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of scotch and holding it between his legs, opening and closing the freezer and returning to his side. Capa was growing used to watching him struggle with tasks that were menial for most people - and really, "struggle" was an underestimation, because the man could be downright quick when he wanted to be (late-night, drunken incidents of wheeling and banging on the bathroom door shouting that he 'needed to piss' sprang to mind).
When the man returned, he first unscrewed the bottle, topping off his and Capa's drinks and then taking the cigarette back in hand, taking a long drag and blowing smoke away from the physicist's face. Smoking, too, was something he seemed to have gotten down to a science, or so it seemed to Capa. This was further proven as he picked up the ice pack, wrapped in cloth, and pressed it to Capa's swollen jaw, the cigarette propped expertly between his second and third finger as he did so, smoke wafting upward, particles mingling and disappearing into the air.
"You're going to have to get used to people being jealous of you," he said matter-of-factly as he held the pack there, Capa too stunned to even flinch from the cold, only staring at him and wondering if the scotch had hit his empty stomach quicker than he'd thought. "They thought that making everyone at their genetic best would eliminate envy, but there's always something to be envious of." For a long moment their eyes met, Capa trying to read what was behind pale green ones just as much as Eugene had been trying to read him for the past few months. And yet while Capa's gaze was unintentionally stony, secured by defenses and a sort of uniform expression that he had applied in his lack of social finesse, Eugene's seemed to offer something, some sort of solace or camaraderie or something else complex that Capa had yet to sort, categorise and properly analyse. He had not yet solved for x, nor was he even sure what the equation was.
And then the moment was gone, and Eugene lowered the pack, examining the wound. "Looks better," he said satisfactorily, setting it aside and taking a drag from the cigarette. "Drink up," he nodded toward the glass. "It'll take the edge off." He turned himself around in his wheelchair, looking out toward the setting sun, the darkening sky, finishing his glass with ease while Capa already felt somewhat light-headed. He knew the man kept expensive variety to suit his excessive tastes, and he certainly didn't usually take the time to indulge - the job more or less didn't allow for it - but feeling so loose so soon was still a surprise.
"Do you think it gets sick of it?" Eugene broke the silence, cigarette smoke rising from between his fingers, elbow rested on the arm of his chair, his eyes on the receding sun. "The same old thing every day. The moon, the Earth, everything leeching off of its light. Must get fairly boring. Maybe it all just feels futile after all this time."
Capa lowered his glass, staring out at the orange-red glow. "'Even after all this time, the Sun never says to the Earth, 'you owe me'. Look what happens with a love like that. It lights up the whole sky.'" The recitation was short, understated - as almost everything about Capa was - and Eugene turned to look at him.
"Hafiz," Capa explained, smiling in that nearly-embarrassed way around the rim of his glass, the worry lines in his youthful face for once eased. He seemed impossibly young to Eugene in that moment, with his hope and his idealism and his persistence, despite firm logic, despite how hard he pushed himself and how dependent on solid answers he was.
"Very romantic," he commented with his own smile as he turned back to the sunset, the stars slowly twinkling in the sky. There were no daily launches anymore, not with the priority of the Icarus projects at hand, and for some reason that made things peaceful. Capa was rarely home this early anyway, nevermind reciting poetry, a sort of romanticism Eugene hadn't even expected the man to be capable of. It was a blissful moment, unintruded, a sort of gradual collision of the particles between them, the cellular structure of their fragile connection becoming that much more solid, clinging and latching in some unique way.
The moment wouldn't last. The intercom interrupted them, breaking through the silence that had settled in like a layer of dust. "Eugene." It was Irene. Her voice was frantic. "Eugene, I'm coming in."
Both men turned to look at the blonde as she hurried down the stairs. Usually so composed, prim as a plastic doll fitted for GATTACA's manoeuvrings, she was a more human Irene now, a reflection of the Irene that had allowed herself to sob quietly at the gradual and faded loss of Vincent's ship. "It's Icarus I." She said. "We've lost communication."