Chapter Text
Irene had told Jerome - Vincent - that it was just a brief orbit around the sun. She wanted, needed him to believe that, because she didn’t believe it herself. This was his dream far beyond hers, she hadn’t realized just how driven, how much he had needed that, what the lengths he had gone to, to attain that dream were. Irene dreamed of the stars herself, had striven, had done all she could, but still fell flat. Perhaps it was because her dreams of the stars, while deep and needy, weren’t the kind of dreams that sustained her from cradle, through...everything. Almost perfect Irene, a valid whose perfectly selected genes that had been chosen so as to grant her the best capabilities, the least amount of dangerous, risky disorders - she had wanted the stars, the space, for many reasons. Not the least of those reasons was to shed Earth for a time, to see something few ever got to, to surpass the limitations that had cropped up in spite of the low likelihood of presentation. Jerome-Vincent, no, he was Jerome in her mind far more than Vincent, though Vincent shined through when she saw who - no, what those lengths were he had gone to, and who the ladder he climbed actually was. The birth Jerome only had the genes to potentially achieve what Jerome-Vincent managed, so was really nothing more than a reflection, a placeholder, wearing that name until an (in)valid Vincent came to take what rightfully belonged to him by birth or not. Jerome-Vincent was the true Jerome Morrow, while the broken perfection in a wheelchair, was simply Eugene Morrow.
She sat outside the beachfront house Jerome, Eugene, the pair, had coexisted in for the years Jerome-Vincent had been a navigator at Gattaca. The steering wheel of her car was gripped tightly, she was here because Jerome had asked her to be here. A plea to a friend, to a loved one - what a peculiar thought that was, for all her genetic superiority (minor imperfection aside) and acceptance amongst her ‘peers’, not once had she felt equal, accepted, known, seen, wanted, or loved by them. They were taught to be superior, to settle for nothing less, so much so, that they forgot human connection, everything caught up in the idea of a perfection thats substance wasn’t based in the person, their day to day interactions and actions, but solely their engineered genes and how many medals, accolades, achievements they had under their belt.
Really, she wanted to run. Wanted to run, and run, and run, and run until her heart screamed at her no more, not another step, and push beyond that. To throw away her nitro pills that she took when she had forced her heart to a pace it couldn’t sustain.
But the plea of someone, person to person, human to human, friend to friend, equal to equal, the request of a man who couldn’t even consider for one moment that she was truly self-serving, instead seeing her, treating her, as though she were a good person rather than a good gene profile with a matching skillset - that was what kept Irene from running.
Chewing her lip, forcing herself to release the steering wheel, to open the car door, to take one step after another, her sensible heels clicking on the pavement, Irene strove for a different sort of perfection. At least in that moment, being the perfection that Jerome had seen, some nebulous creature that thought outside of its own self-interests or preferences. For those moments as she went to the front door, inserted the key Jerome had given her alongside that request, she was not the disqualified Gattica navigator always jockeying for position, with expectations of success and achievements to live up to. She instead was a person who thought of others without expectation of reward, or thanks.
Closing the door behind herself, she called out cautiously from the main floor, “Eugene?”
No answer.
Irene had fulfilled Jerome’s request, at least the part about going to check on the house. That was the request, to the letter. A technical fulfillment.
...It was one that ignored the meaning behind that request, the meaning that had to be veiled from the world, where such a revelation could do the most harm to others beyond Jerome.
Therefore, the only conclusion Irene could come to, was that her simply coming in, calling out Eugene’s name, was an unacceptable level of action. Braving the stairs - God, how did he manage to get up here in time? To conquer these steps quickly enough to reach that button to let us in, to haul himself to that chair, and look so unconcerned? - that were easy for her to descend physically, not so much mentally. Irene didn’t know what she would find down there, who she would find, didn’t want to know, not really. She wanted Jerome, she wanted the stars, she wanted to run - Irene did not want to explore this territory, to see what odds were overcome, to see another valid’s failure to live up to their potential...it would be too much like being forced to openly accept her own weaknesses that she hadn’t been able to conquer the way Eugene had those stairs that were now behind her.
“Eugene?” calling out again, this time her voice quavered, and Irene staunchly squashed that sign of weakness. Valids didn’t show weakness to others, and in particular, not to other valids. “Eugene Morrow, it’s Irene.”
No answer.
Lips rolling, pursing tightly, she spun a very slow circle, taking in the screened off sections, the desolate kitchen that, while spotless, looked as though it hadn’t been used properly in ages. A few shelves were stacked with books, many kinds of them, classics to a few worn out pulp fiction hardbacks jammed in between the heavier readings on physics, history, culture, economics... Peering behind one of the screens, that was obviously Eugene’s private sleeping space, it too was meticulously ordered, crisp, medical. Uninviting. Frown deepening, Irene went to the next room, seeking some evidence of Eugene. There wasn’t much of anywhere for him to go, at least not during the daytime, it was too likely he would be recognized and put Jerome at risk. Not that out in space there was much risk, but when Jerome returned there could be.
She saw the wheelchair beside a large metal box. It took a moment of confused scanning of the small, otherwise empty room, to take another look at the glass door on that box...to register what she saw. Or, more precisely, who.
Distantly she heard clicking from tanks elsewhere in the house, could swear she heard gas and air flowing through tubes, towards that box, reacting to some sort of preset timer. For once she was the fastest. For once, she was unparalleled, a moment of the purest excellence condensed in those vital seconds. It felt like a hellish forever, but that was from within the confines of Irene’s horrified, screaming, pleading mind, as her hand wrapped around the rotating locking door handle, the other smacking against the emergency shutoff button near it. She didn’t know which part happened first, or which action was successful, beyond somehow forcing the jammed door open. Its hinges screamed their protest, but Irene only had one thought: Get Eugene out of that box.
Beyond the disjointed image and sensation of shoving her arms around his shoulders, grasping clothes, anything, and falling backward, launching backward, kicking backward, away from the base of the incinerator, like a swimmer flipping and rebounding in the water to use the leverage of pool wall to thrust them into another lap, lending them a boost against the temporary slowing the repositioning required... If Irene knew Eugene’s history, she would find that analogy painfully ironic, downright tasteless even. But she only registered his weight in her arms, the chic painted cement flooring striking her rump, then her back, as Eugene’s weight filled her arms, pressing her down, while she instinctively continued trying to drag him away from a danger that had been nullified. The incinerator’s failsafes engaged, though not before several ugly jets of flame spurt out from the open door.
Gasping for breath, crying, overwhelmed, the adrenaline still roaring through her, Irene clutched Eugene to her breast protectively, while he angrily howled and tried to wrest himself free.
“Unhand me you - “ it was broken, barely made sense, garbled. “No, no, no!”
Irene didn’t dodge the fist that landed against her cheek, only kept scooting with the power of scrambling legs on slick floor, anything to put another inch between them both and that death box, no matter that it had shut itself off. “Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”
What stuck out after she somehow scrambled and dragged both of them through the door, shoving it closed with a stockinged foot, her tan pump lost somewhere, was how they both huddled in on one another, arms no longer pushing away or flailing or trying to get a better grip to prevent losing hold on him, breaking down, both of them. Their arms wrapped around one another, their legs splayed and canted at uncomfortable angles, like broken dolls, in that moment, equally paralyzed from the waist down, their lower limbs useless.
Drained, hours, days, an eternity it felt like afterwards, the neck her face was pressed into, the shoulder of the sport coat he was wearing - they were sodden, soaked through with tears, saliva, and snot, freely shed, the overwhelming terror, anger, confusion, having flowed away as the fluids left her. Her hair was mussed, her blouse and jacket was equally sodden, there were bruises forming over her back, she could feel it, a dull, warm ache from his clutching fingers digging into her. She had no energy left, and neither did Eugene, their breathing having synchronized during the release of explosive emotion or stress, whatever it should be called. Exhausted by the ordeal, of all that outpouring, Irene hung on, leaned in, and tried to inhale through a nose that was as blocked as though she had broken it.
Eugene wasn’t any better off, the occasional disconsolate moan interrupted by an ugly snuffle, and smear of wet cheek against her throat.
“You’ve ruined it, absolutely ruined it!” the words some of the only clear things that Eugene had managed to utter, and for all their upset, they were so devoid of strength, of force. “Cocked it all up! Why? Why? It’s not my fault, can’t be my fault, not this time, can’t always lose...”
Summoning up some bit of strength she didn’t know she possessed, Irene leaned her head back, forced locked fingers from where they had been bunched up and frozen in Eugene’s jacket - and slapped him on the back of his head. It was weak. One slap there led to another, those were weak too, she had enough strength and energy to move that little bit, but none to lend weight, force, to the blows. One hand became two, and it was stupid, so, so stupid, the sort of action a child would indulge in during a tantrum.
But it led to grasping his head, grasping his face when she couldn’t lift her arms again, and yanked his head close enough to hers, they almost slammed foreheads when all she was trying to do was stare him down, maybe rest her forehead against his, they were both too tired to remain even a little upright without the other’s support, “You selfish bastard. You overweening prick. You fucking cockstain.” The insults came without heat, and he hadn’t reacted, but the last one, the one she hadn’t ever thought of as an effective insult, one that belonged in silly books and movies about heroes and honour, “Coward,” that one had him trying to flinch away, sky blue, blood shot eyes filling up with fresh tears though they looked too thirsty to manage the bits of water that slipped free at that single word. “Coward. You’re a coward, Eugene.”
“No,” denying it. “No! I was sober when I walked in front of that car, I was sober when I climbed into that incinerator! I was going to do it! I wanted to, I want to, I need to, I don’t belong here. I don’t want to be here anymore can’t you understand that?!” Hands slid to her shoulders, trying to push away, but instead, only locked there, “It was planned out, I promised myself I’d be free of this cursed...cursed hunk of useless flesh once Vincent got all that could be used out of it. So it’d be useful to someone, since it’s not to me...and I’m tired. I’m tired...” trailing off, eyes closing, weariness pouring off of him, the repeated statement ending in an awful sob.
“That’s all you’re good for?” challenging him, and in a way, challenging herself. “A body? There’s not a mind in this skull of yours?” shaking his head with her hands, rattling his brain hopefully. “You’re just a stupid chunk of meat, bought and sold at market, cut up into pieces for another’s consumption? A body, some DNA, a paper cutout of flesh and bone that only exists to measure up to the demands of others?”
Living up to the expectations of society, of work, of her peers, of her family that had paid through the nose in hopes of producing a child so genetically superior while all but obliterating the risk of that pesky family predisposition - it was overwhelming. Dehumanizing. But of course it was dehumanizing when you were told from conception onwards that you had to be superhuman...it robbed you of humanity. It made it impossible to truly maintain a solo identity, hopes, dreams, preferences...even as it bred entitlement, expectation, and an inability to deal with failures, setbacks, the little things that happened to people, or the deeper things, that made people, well, people.
For so long, so, so long Irene thought she was the only one. The only one certain she was an imposter. Hell, according to some of her former romantic interests, and even her friends, when they found out she had lost the gamble her parents made, and had a heart that wasn’t as reliable as it had been designed to be - they had told her she was an imposter. That she was little better than an (in)valid. So she had hidden it, hidden it and fought it, and was grateful every day that it was not a visible mark against her that the casual, or even more than casual, observer would notice.
Not fighting her, eyes scrunched shut, “Cows have best friends. Wouldn’t say it changes things for them when it comes time for somebody’s supper, now does it? In the end, steak’s on somebody’s plate.” Sighing, hoarse, “Look at me, there isn’t anything left, not for me, not for others, not for the world...fuck them anyway, who cares, but they don’t have a use for someone like me beyond what they can squeeze out of my flesh and bone, then throw what’s left into the glue factory.”
Irene made a face at the imagery. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Figures,” gasping out a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Still eat dairy? Eggs? Cake? What happens to those cows that don’t make milk anymore, hens that don’t lay? When they’re no longer able to produce, it’s just a quick trip to the meat market or stewpot or dog food factory.”
Strange things for a valid, crippled or not, to be aware of. Irene knew, probably knew a lot better than Eugene did - she actually spent her summers from shortly after birth, on up until the end of university, on her grandparents’ goat and sheep farm. She didn’t mind the meat from that farm, either, it was finding out how industrial farming dealt with meat harvesting, that turned her almost full time vegetarian. Not that she could afford too stringent dietary restrictions and have a hope of Gattaca sending her to space, so she allowed for dairy, eggs, fish.
“You’re not a herd animal,” Irene insisted, tired, shaking him again, wondering if a single word she said had gotten through to him. Probably not. He would have to be strong willed - Stubborn, difficult, bullheaded - to have carried out his half of the charade that allowed Jerome to achieve what should have been impossible. “You’re a man. A stupid, stupid, idiotic man.”
“See? Told you, I’m a fake, you should tell all those morons who administered my IQ tests that they got it all wrong over the years, probably help screen out other useless gits like myself,” it lacked the measured cynicism and wit that seemed native to Eugene under normal circumstances, but it was closer than all that blubbering they had both been doing. They both flopped to the side, or perhaps Eugene dragged her, his spine no longer able to hold himself up even while leaning against her, or maybe she fell over first, it was a tossup. “What on earth are you doing here anyway, darling? If you’re looking for something that smells like Vincent, you know where his bed is, quite certain you’ve been there before, and it’s not down here. Best fetch whatever you like before the cleaners come to pickup the weekly laundry, it’ll be their last visit until he returns, and I won’t risk any of his (in)valid DNA laying about to incriminate him...so chop-chop, go on up there, get it while the getting’s good as the saying goes.”
Had she thought the cynicism was gone? No, it was just dampened temporarily. Half dead with strain and given a few minutes to collect himself, and that acerbic ass managed to put that ugly barrier that he called a sense of humour, back on display. “Bastard.”
“Sir Morrow, and madam Morrow, do not sully themselves with unintended pregnancies,” muttered primly. “One, and only one, utterly perfect, 9.3 on the scale, son and heir, to do them proud and live up to their exacting standards...produced exactly five years after the wedding they undertook to stave off the stain of being only three generations of well monied on one side, and true nouveau riche on the other, knighted or not. No bastard here, darling, just perfectly bred disappointment to be hidden away in some country my oafish self had originally immigrated to for uni, so that the others don’t have such an easy time staring at the disgrace they created. The gossip without the evidence of my presence is surely nasty enough, entertaining however... I almost miss it, ah, good memories. Perhaps I won’t regale you with them sometime.”
“Fine,” letting that go for now. Irene hadn’t the energy. Instead, she struck where she had a feeling it would hurt in a very different way that calling him a coward did. “He,” no need to specify, especially since, in her mind, Jerome was Jerome, while in Eugene’s Jerome was Vincent...or perhaps it was only here, in this private space where that identification was allowed? “Asked me to come here, to,” stretching the truth, she did her best, “to make sure you were alright, not lonely, or-or without a friend on hand. I think he asked me to do that as a way to keep me from running away...”
“Oh, darling, darling, you are a deplorable liar,” he sighed. “Even if it does sound like something he would do. Keep the hangers on occupied, make sure we clean up after ourselves, take our vitamins, get enough sleep...be good little boys and girls while he’s too far away to mind us himself.” A sound of exasperation, “I don’t even know how you made it through life without becoming a better liar, my dear. As is, you all but handed Vincent over to that meddling prick, Anton with your pisspoor performance. I did not haul myself up a full flight of stairs on my belly like some sort of worm for you to throw it all away.” Growling, and as Irene watched him complain, she realized this was his way of trying to hang on to something, even if that meant she was subjected to his criticism, she would tolerate it for now. But just for now, if he kept it up beyond this crisis, she would sock him a good one, cripple or no, he still had the upper body strength to strike back or defend against a fist, no matter how well aimed. “Honestly, how could you do that when you had been so willing to risk yourself and cover for him before? Balking at a bit of charade, not even ten minutes of it! Not like you had to do the hard work... And you bit me!”
Irene released a sigh when Eugene petered out, she wanted to fall asleep, no matter how awful the floor was it was right there, and tempting, but she wouldn’t allow it. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to wake up sore, but it was really because she was still afraid Eugene would somehow manage to cram himself back into that incinerator, or at the least, injure his body worse than it already was. Paraplegics had to be careful, they may not feel much, or any pain in the limbs that had lost their direct connection to the spinal cord, but that didn’t mean that those injuries were something that could be ignored. There was infection to consider. Or torn muscles or tendons in atrophied limbs. It could all lead to dangerous complications down the road, so should be avoided.
“Eugene,” prompting him, hoping the closed eyes didn’t mean he had succumbed to the siren call of sleep, and straightened and untangled her legs from the mess she had made of herself while still laying down, “Eugene, I’ve had enough of your stupid floor. We’re going to bed.”
A blue eye popped open, brows furrowed, “I beg your pardon?”
“We are going to bed,” enunciating. “Not on the floor. A bed. The nearest bed. A couch. A sofa, I don’t care what soft surface it is, Eugene, but it won’t be the floor. It’s not soft, and I’ve had enough of this.”
“I didn’t ask you to throw us both on the floor,” he protested. “That’s all on you, I’ve nothing to do with it. Here is where you dropped me, and that will have to do, until I’ve had a nice lie down, regathered my strength, and crawled to my wheelchair you ever so thoughtfully left in the other room behind that closed door. Oh, it’ll be a game, I wonder how many tries it’ll take of me lunging upwards to get the door handle and work it, so that I can actually slither my way back in there where my only means of mobility is sitting, all lovely and nice.”
That made her angry. He had everything to do with it. Never, not ever, not even running with Jerome from the police that night, had she ever been so afraid. She didn’t like Eugene, he was a jackass, but nobody should kill themselves like that. It was too awful to consider. And impossible to hang back and watch without acting, just from a purely human standpoint.
That anger gave her enough gumption to lurch and shove herself against the floor to sit up, “If you hadn’t done something so callous and selfish as pack yourself into the incinerator, I wouldn’t have had to yank you out of it, and neither of us would be on the floor.” Wiping at the muck he had left on her clothes, face crinkling at how gross, wet, slimy and cold it felt on her fingers, “Or covered in each other’s genetic materials. I thought you would be drunk and despondent, or drunk with a few escorts, celebrating, I wasn’t prepared for the,” traumatic, scarring, horrifying, terrifying, soul crushing, “image of a human being relaxing, waiting to be consumed by flames like it was an afternoon at the park! If you hadn’t done that, Eugene, if you hadn’t decided to be a coward who doesn’t care who he hurts, who he scars, who he leaves behind, you would have your rump firmly planted still in your wheelchair.”
Amidst her methodical tirade, Irene had rolled to her knees, kicked off her other heel, yanked off her coat, and begun to work her hands under Eugene’s armpits, planning on dragging him with whatever strength she could find, towards his sleeping area.
Breathing heavily, Irene had never felt so upset and emotional as she had the last few weeks. And today? Today took the cake, by far. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the overwhelming force of it all. So she was breathing heavily, not from physical exertion, but everything, everything all at once.
Catching her breath, no matter that the little bit of activity the last few moments shouldn’t have her winded, Eugene’s voice was very soft, very clear, “I’m sorry, Irene. Nobody was supposed to see that, least of all you or Vincent. All that was supposed to remain was my wheelchair, and the legacy of someone more fitting wearing my identity. Nothing horrifying or awful to hurt anyone left behind. No corpse, no rot...just an empty seat that I used to fill and a name I could never live up to. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I only...I only want my hurting to stop.”
“Not fair,” Irene protested, disarmed.
“Life’s not fair, life’s not just, or Vincent would have been a valid, or his genes never would have mattered, only his dedication and skill, my being second place would be good enough for my family, for me, and a thousand other things, dearest, like you being up in the night sky he was always on about right there beside him,” and with the words came him trying to add at least some locomotion with his upper body to match her jerky, tired pulls that aimed for his sleeping area. “We do our best, and sometimes that’s just not good enough. And I can’t take that Irene, do understand? My best doesn’t do anything, it only hurts others, it only drags them -”
“Oh do shut up, Eugene,” biting her lip, not wanting to start crying again, because his voice was so soft, so earnest, so sweet, he believed, and she could all too easily understand those feelings. “Just, keep helping me a bit here, or - “ she grunted, reassessed, then repositioned so she was over him partially, “can you lock your arms around my back? I may be able to move us along without straining anything this way...”
A tiny, quirked smile, and the weight of arms, the strength of them locking, the knot of his hands wrapping tightly over each of his wrists, “It’s hardly ten a.m. darling, we haven’t even been drinking, and we’re all done in, ready for a nap. Scandalous.”
With their combined, drained efforts, they both hauled themselves onto the rather roomy, upraised bed Eugene called his own. Irene knew it was just shock, adrenaline wearing off, stress, a sleepless night before, all adding up, culminating in this weakness, this fatigue, this emotionally unhinged state... But god, she was so fucking tired. And she was still scared Eugene may do something while she was asleep, something deplorable, and hurt himself in some attempt to make his own inner agonies and demons be silent. Scooting around, a bit of fussing at their clothes, both of them assisting the other to at least get tucked in, extra layers of unwanted garments squirmed free of and tossed aside, whether they made it to the floor or would wind up tangled in the bedding, was a concern for later. Wrapping her arms around Eugene, she ignored his startled grunt, and pulled him in tightly, so his head lay over her heart, her chin tucked over his crown, and her arms very thoroughly tangled around him. He wouldn’t be getting free of that hold without waking her up, that was a fact, and, for good measure, she wrapped her legs around one of his limp ones, a last bit of insurance to keep him safe until she woke up rested enough to fight him again later.
XXX
Breasts. Breasts and powdery night jasmine and sandalwood perfume, or scent added to delicate feminine items during their wash. Breasts, scent, once familiar things. Breasts, scent, and arms, arms and breath in his hair, and a heart beating under his ear, tight, soft curves pressed up close, with him half draped over them, a hand clutching and squeezing the round of a hip. Eugene didn’t indulge in these things, he only acted like he did. Jerome used to, even after the accident, even after half his body’s use was taken away as punishment for failing to succeed yet again - and at something so simple like dying! Jerome before and after, oh, he was well familiar with such soft lines and smells and textures, it was just that the Jerome after his ‘accident’ had had to pay women for that, and they certainly didn’t stick around for him to nap on them.
Or perhaps it was all a nightmare. An ugly, ugly nightmare. To test the theory, he tried to move his leg. Failed that. Alright, something easier, how about identifying just where under the pile of blankets, unseen, his leg was, and he sent firm orders to those recalcitrant limbs to obey, to wiggle enough to make the sheets whisper with the shifting of it. Again, failure. Not that he truly expected to succeed, it had been five, no, no it was six years - bloody hell, how could it really be six years already? - since he lost his value to society as himself. It had been three years since he gained a shot at doing something worthwhile with a life he had been too afraid to try to end again by that time. The question of ‘what if he failed again’ and ‘what would be taken away while still left breathing, aware, sentient, suffering’ was what had held him back until Vincent came along. It took awhile after that dreamer infected him with some sense of purpose, some kind of dream, that said as himself, he would only be a failure, but if someone else was him instead...that could be a success. Could achieve the impossible. So then, six years, and he’d found the courage to clear the slate, make sure that the man who filled out his name, his identity, giving it a worth, a weight, that he never, ever could have managed himself, would never, ever be at risk for being labeled a fraud. No duplicate Jerome Eugene Morrow seen out around town, or having a pizza or bottle of wine delivered to him. No more burden of picking up the cripple who had fallen off the couch because he was too drunk to aim for his wheelchair. No more financial drain from a lazy, no good, valid who couldn’t even cook egg toast without a recipe and very attentive watching every step of the way.
So...then that meant one thing, this soft and taught pile of woman holding him close, clutching to him like a lifeline - he had failed yet again.
Really, it was pathetic. How could he actually manage to be even more pathetic than he already was? Eugene had thought he had already hit the bottom, but life sure did love to show him how easy it was for him to fuck it up, no matter how well, how carefully he planned.
Making a face, he began to try and extricate himself from the S&M worthy level of bondage with ropes made of lean, long arms, and a ballerina’s body he found himself in.
“Mph,” a worried grunt, and the arms tightened in response to his movement.
Slower, wincing, he tried again, but this garnered a more startled, upset noise, and then he found himself rolled over willy nilly without so much as a by your leave, onto his back...and a surprisingly heavy woman pressing him into his mattress. All while the stranglehold and tangling of her limbs around him remained in place.
“Oh this is ridiculous,” moaning to the heavens, to the blonde mess that obscured part of his view of the floor above. “Ludicrous. Preposterous. Fantastic. Outlandish. Nonsensical -
“Did you swallow a dictionary?” came muffled grumping from the vicinity of his shoulder.
“My IQ’s off the charts, though after you have a stern word with them to correct their calculations and tighten up their loopholes, I’m certain it could be downgraded to merely above average,” dryly, Eugene quipped, hands fussing with the blanket python that had formed during their nap, and this subsequent rolling about, if only to keep from the temptation of stroking the line of Irene’s back.
He didn’t need to think about that, or to wonder how Vincent’s hands had mapped her body, how he had made her gasp. He’d gotten a good earful the other night. He was proud on one hand of Vincent’s showing, on the other, it had left Eugene feeling despondent. Maybe it was because Vincent was enjoying himself and Eugene was on his own, debating covering his head with a pillow to block the noise, or to frustrate himself by trying to rub one out with a body that had become balky at the most inopportune times. Hell, he could even have been feeling awful about Vincent having a good time because it was someone else Vincent was with, or, or, or, or a few dozen other reasons. It didn’t matter.
His hands were busy, properly busy, with the wadded up bedding, no danger, nor annoyance to anyone.
“Jerome’s much quieter than you are,” she moaned her complaint, slowly pushing up from the bed, to balance her weight on her elbows above him, far too close, far, far too close. “Are you always so fucking chatty?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be an annoyance to a person who came in unannounced, really, not even a call, I know we valids tend to think everyone wants to see us and is just waiting upon baited breath, eager to interact and show off our superior engineering, but manners are still useful when making house calls,” rolling his eyes at her. “As such, perhaps it’s not rude of me to point out the fact that you arrived, unannounced, unrequested, unwanted, invaded a private moment, making free with my person, my bed, and are now presently trying to amputate my legs with fabric. While granted they are useless, I am still rather attached to the damn things, you know. I like to stare at them late at night and torment myself with their mocking presence or doodle tic-tac-toe with permanent marker on them, but they are mine, and you shouldn’t be just going about and doing them harm for funsies. Really now, if you were curious about how -”
“Eugene, shut up,” groaning, head dropping to his chest. “Really, seriously, or I’ll find a sock to stuff in your mouth.”
Blinking, surprised, he realized something. “You aren’t a morning person, are you?”
“No,” she growled. “And even if I was, you still talk too much. I don’t know how Jerome or you figured he could pass for you. Anyone who knew you before he took your place, would know in about two sentences.”
Innocently, “Why? Is it because it takes an hour or more to get those two sentences out of him?”
Silvery blue eyes pinned him from the side, narrowing, “Because when he speaks, he says something. When you do, you say a lot of horseshit and not much else...so that when you say something worth saying, it’s covered up enough that nobody might catch it.” She sat up in a stretching sway, a big yawn accompanying it. “He’s stoic, his heart’s hidden somewhere on his sleeve, and he’ll show it when it’s important. But you...you say I’m a bad liar, Eugene, but you’re only successful at it by fanning smoke, shining mirrors, and hoping no one notices the man behind the curtain...a curtain that fell down, or was never put up.” A taupe manicured nail poked him on the breastbone, “Yours is as out there, loud, obvious, and almost as obnoxious as your monologues.”
Crossing his arms, Eugene, returned the stare, unspeaking.
“Did you even bother telling him? In small words, Eugene? Or did you just yammer like a jackdaw, hoping he noticed, and hoping he didn’t,” she was looking right through him.
Eugene didn’t like it.
“You may leave now, thank you,” he stated firmly, evenly, and politely. “Duty discharged to ‘check up’ on the house or whatever it was he asked you to do that took up your time in visiting. We should do this again sometime, I was thinking the day after ‘never’. I’ll even make a pot of proper tea.”
He watched as Irene sat back on her haunches, the motion taking much of the blankets and sheets he hadn’t been able to win free of on his own, her expression intense. “You love him, never said a word, and you expect him to come back from Titan to find you gone...find you abandoned him, what will he do? He’s beaten the odds already, has continued to do so again, and again. He’ll come back, an identity he won’t be able to properly use without you to -”
“No,” lips firming into a tight line. “No, I made sure he would have decades worth of my materials. I’m not sloppy. I’m not careless. It’s only other people’s interference that mucks up anything I set out to do. A driver that was too good, a medical team too dedicated...you being the chief examples. No, no I made quite certain that Vincent is well protected, well covered.” And far, far more than simply supplying genetic material. There were insurance policies, there were little things here and there, using his stupid vaunted IQ to learn the ins and outs of economics, at least as much as was required for him to squeeze every single dividend and benefit for an emergency, a worst case, a retirement, a new life, anything, that his friend, his one, and only, true friend, the only person who would miss him, the only person who ever really cared about him as himself, whatever that was. “My gene sequence is almost pure perfection, and I demand nothing less than that from myself. I’ve left no stone unturned, nothing to chance when it comes to his return and ability to continue living out whatever life he chooses, act out whatever dreams he aims for.”
She shook her head, speaking the truth that only was supposed to come from him, or maybe Vincent, though his friend was far, far too kind to say so, “Your demands aren’t always met, Eugene.” Heaved a sigh, looking around the quiet bits of his house that had become almost a home with Vincent’s interference, his presence, filling it, and now, leaving it empty of it, too. “And I’m not just talking about the identity, Eugene. I’m talking about what not having you here would do to him. How many people can he count upon, how many dare he let near, know him? Know him not as a set of altered double helixes, or a position, or a title, but as a person?”
“Anton’s his brother,” Eugene offered, a paltry offer, but it was something. “That’s family. He has you, and any little perfect babies you both opt to create. Word to the wise, much as I admire the idea of being a faith birth, much as I am proud of what Vincent’s capable of without being engineered even the slightest bit...for the safety and happiness of those children, I do suggest that they are planned and engineered... Just don’t treat them like perfect specimens of science and genetics. Treat them like people.”
“Anton, the detective?” ignoring his advice. She was a valid, she knew how the world worked, so did Vincent, but, well, Eugene could add his voice too. “That’s not exactly the sort of person I’d want over for the holidays, Eugene.”
Scoffing, “And a drunken fuck like me, is?”
Irene slid from the bed, shrugging, and Eugene repressed his sigh of relief. Sleep warmed the skin, warmed the thin, stylish yet fairly pragmatic clothes she wore, brought blood to the surface, and sitting like so, so close, there had been the hints of other flesh that had been warmed. She was probably not even aware of it, women rarely were, and if they were, they were worried about it, so didn’t want to know... But Eugene noticed, especially so close up, and it wasn’t even that he wanted Irene sexually, not exactly, it was just an enormous, unwanted mix of crap making for an intoxicating brew that was not as easy to ignore as he wished it was. Still, when she had been right there, too damn close, he could all but taste her in the back of his mouth.
But, good. Yes, good. She was off the bed, she had walked away, and around the screen. Damn. Blast. Because now he was also without his wheelchair. And she had just...left him behind. Rude. So terribly, terribly rude. Did her family spend all their money on making her, and forget to instill a bit of class? Or is that an American thing, I can’t remember... No, nevermind, the Americans Eugene had mostly dealt with were generally a great deal more polite - or at least standoffish, and thus, could be deemed polite since they didn’t intrude - than many of his countrymen. Then again, that could also be due to the set he was part of, valids of his background were only pretend polite, and only when it suited them...
Distracted from his thoughts, which were also trying to distract him from the fact that he would have to flop onto the floor from a fair height, then begin the lengthy, shameful squirm to his wheelchair...or perhaps the incinerator. No, no, he rather distinctly recalled the sound of tortured metal tearing, amazing really what adrenaline and fear could do, because Irene had displayed superhuman strength in those moments, and the door latch was ruined. And the failsafes that couldn’t be disengaged on the incinerator prevented firing if the door wasn’t locked and latched properly. That he had been fighting to hold onto the inner door handle with both hands while she had managed to open it with one, spoke of just how strong a surge she had been subjected to. It hadn’t been pleasant, the aftermath he was willing to admit was despicable, hearing her great sobbing cries as shock had taken her once the rush of chemicals left her. Eugene felt terrible about that. Felt terrible she had seen him in the incinerator, waiting for cleansing fire to burn away all his failures. Felt pained that her body had reacted as it did, had taken her for such a cruel ride, to leave her with that memory and those feelings burned into her forever. God, he had chosen his method of death so that there wouldn’t be anything to harm anyone...
“Your chariot, sir,” that was the distraction from his distraction, Irene’s voice breaking the looping reverie. Beside the bed was his wheelchair, which she held somewhat awkwardly, inexperienced. Eugene didn’t like anyone touching it, it was too personal. Vincent could, when needed, but anyone else and he tended to feel..violated. Except his friend wasn’t here, and she was, and this was...something or other. “It’s lunch, I’m famished, and I don’t care what protests you use, if I have to pack you into my car, to a diner, then a grocery, without a helpful scrap of action on your part, so help me, I’ll do it.”
Cautiously, “What about work? Shouldn’t you be at Gattica doing something...important?”
“I tendered my resignation last night, the Director should be coming across it now,” she shrugged. “They were never going to put me on a shuttle, my heart is considered...defective. Not completely, but a liability they don’t want, when there are so many others with perfect ones. And without Jerome... I didn’t want to be here anymore. Thought I might go to my grandparent’s farm. They’re dead, of course, have been for years, but a cousin and her family take care of it now.” A wistful sound, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as he watched her look off into the distance, while she moved to lean her hips against his bed. “Summers there are beautiful, they always said they wanted to leave it to me, but...my scores, my aspirations, I wouldn’t ever have been able to devote myself to running it properly,” an eloquent shrug. “Besides, not all branches of the family are valids. Not all of them have good choices available to them, any hope of stepping up, or their children having better. So, I asked my grandparents to will it to someone else in the family, someone who would love it as much as they needed it. So...they did.” Shaking her head, “I still visit when I can, lambing season is...” Irene trailed off, again, shaking her head, this time obviously annoyed with herself, “Not terribly interesting, I’m sure.”
That. That was what Vincent saw. The human beneath the valid. The human beneath the (in)valid. Those things that were hiding in plain sight, while hidden. Did Vincent know of a grandparent’s farm and baby lambs? How could he, Irene and Vincent had only recently developed their interaction on any level beyond a nod of greeting, farewell, or acknowledgement that had likely comprised most of the years prior. But that didn’t mean Vincent hadn’t sensed, hadn’t seen the bits of fellow human, in Irene during some small moment that granted him that insight.
“I’ve read some manuals out of morbid curiosity, a time or two, on industrial farming, or where things came from,” Eugene offered, wheeling to his dresser, digging through it for his grooming supplies, the ones he had removed from the water closet, so that later, Vincent wouldn’t have to. Turning tightly mostly on one wheel, the box in his lap, he offered it up to Irene, “There should be a comb or two in here fit for long hair, dear.”