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youthereader · 9 months

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Near Zero part 1.

pairing: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

summary: 2.8k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

rating: eventually E (no smut in this part); age gap (10+ years), infidelity, period-typical sexism

a/n: Though based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character. This is not intended to be historically accurate, merely written as entertainment. This is my first reader fic ever, so please be kind! Many thanks to @indulgence-be-thy-name for encouraging me and helping iron out wrinkled ideas.

part 2. 3.* 4. 5. 6.* 7.*

When you see him now, he’s so different to the last time, but he’s unmistakably the same man. Now, he wears a broad hat and carries a pipe as he approaches you in the empty room.

“I was wondering when you would show up,” he says, and his smile opens him up completely.

He extends a hand as you rise to meet him. Your things are being sorted thoroughly somewhere out back, but you still hold onto your coat and matching pocketbook. Los Alamos feels like another world, so remote that you hadn’t expected the town to be built here, with roads and people swarming. It is a living, breathing thing you’ve somehow managed to stumble into, it feels.

“Dr. Oppenheimer,” you reply, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know if you were meeting me.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss it,” he replies, though he sounds distracted. “What do you know?”

Hardly any pleasantries, which you expected. In the years of knowing him, Dr. Oppenheimer didn’t get to know you as your professor, and certainly not as anything else outside of the classroom. You had not subscribed to the Cult of Oppie, and not necessarily out of choice.

Though there were women studying theoretical and experimental physics, they were few and far between. Since leaving high school, you had understood that to be taken seriously, you could not act like a man. The few friends you had in high school often teased you about your lack of grace, your ability to be covered in chalk dust at any given time, and your unwavering standoffish nature.

You belong in a think tank, not on a podium proclaiming these theories. You could work in a team, which was why you supposed your name came up for this.

“My country needs me,” you reply.

He smiles again, somewhat smaller. His eyes survey you a beat longer and you swallow, picturing your hair windswept and unruly from the train journey. You might smell of sweat, you hadn’t showered since yesterday and came straight here when you let yourself known to security.

“And your country will be glad to have you. Have a seat.”

He gestures to a desk and chair, waiting for you to sit. The silence stretches and you feel his eyes on you. You’re wearing your best dress and your nails match your lipstick. Though you were given little context about being summoned here, it felt like a job interview from the telegram you received a few days ago.

The last time he saw you, you dressed like someone that didn’t care about making a good impression.

To stamp down any nerves, you pluck your cigarettes case from your pocketbook, fishing one out. A lit match appears as you put a cigarette between your lips, Dr. Oppenheimer’s hand cupping the flame as you lean in.

“Mm, thank you,” you murmur. You exhale, watching as he pulls back, extinguishing it with a short puff of air.

He stares down at the burnt-out match for a couple seconds before he looks back at you again, his brows furrowing.

“This opportunity means reaching beyond what we have before scientifically,” he says, and you take another pull from your cigarette.

You speak around your smoke. “This is to do with Nazi weapons, isn’t it.”

“They split the atom,” he replies, and you nod. “And since you’re here, it means you’ve been cleared to be part of our great endeavour.”

The ‘our’ would be ‘his’ to a lot of people. You know better, having seen the hundreds of people outside.

“I need like-minded people,” he says.

You rub the tip of your thumb and forefinger together absently, frowning. You were the first to admit that you had very little in your life besides your work, and that hadn’t been plentiful since war broke out. Belatedly, it occurs to you that he’s referring to your intelligence.

“What could I contribute? I wasn’t one of your best.”

“You were,” he amends, lowering his voice a little. “You just didn’t participate outside of a school building. You were invited.”

Your eyes swing to meet his and you recall that Oppie reputation, that he was a womanizer underneath the genius. It never meant to be aimed towards you, that charm. Or so you assumed.

“I’m not the type to enjoy crowds,” you reply. “It’s a character flaw of mine.”

You were speaking just like your parents, the ones that had not encouraged you to pursue academia. Being a homemaker, someone with a reliable husband was what they wanted for you.

“Would you have come, if I asked you to, personally?” he asks.

His question throws you, and you stammer out: “N-now, or back then?”

“I asked for you both times,” he says.

For the first time, you blush. Hoping he ignores this, you smoke some more to clear your head. You had almost forgotten about his ability to make you flustered.

“If you asked me to come to a class party personally, I would have said yes,” you admit.

You dare to glance his way again, stomach flipping. So much for being a more polished version of yourself, you’re back to being mousey and strange under those intense eyes.

“That’s a pity,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”

In the days and weeks to follow, it’s quickly made clear that there’s no leaving Los Alamos. Your residence is between a series of identical houses. The house itself is barely larger than your living quarters you remember from college. A cramped bedroom, a washroom, and a kitchenette. Nowhere to entertain to speak of, but it was still a privilege to have your own space. Your neighbors to your left are a young family of three, and to your right, there are two secretaries related to fellow scientists.

You keep to yourself. You opt for a long letter to your parents explaining very little about the new role here. You’re certain your letters are read by someone along the way for obvious reasons, and explaining it all tires you anyway.

Being a part of something as insular as this takes some adjusting to say the least. There is no escaping without being noticed, as there are guards all over. You overhear town gossip without meaning to; the tiny bubble you circle over and over is both thrilling and stifling. Everything feels pressurized in those first couple days in your new home especially. You sit on your new bed with your hands in your lap, cigarette perpetually lit in times like these.

You leave early the morning you’re expected in the department, unable to delay the inevitable any longer. You’re not the only one with this drive, walking into the main laboratory (a wide room with desks in rows with a blackboard at the back) to find several men already seated, chatting with one another.

You pause, waiting as their attention diverts to you. You recognize a few of them from professional acquaintance, whereas others you’ve only known by reputation. The air shifts, and you feel very out of place.

“Good morning,” you say, voice soft, controlled.

You wish to be invisible, which was why your clothes were far demurer than what you arrived in earlier that week. Admittedly, you did agonize over your hair for perhaps longer than necessary, but you’re glad you haven’t done childish braids or nothing at all. There’s a fine line to tread with these men; being attractive but not ostentatious is usually the aim. From what you’ve learned over the years, not caring about your appearance tends to backfire in terms of being taken seriously.

You don’t agree with any of this, of course. No-one should be judged on their appearance in terms of their intelligence or whether they’re worth listening to. Unfortunately, this is just the game you must play, especially in academia.

Your eyes catch various reactions, some eyes lighting up with recognition, others perplexed. Some might not have seen you in years and don’t remember you at all, which is fair. You never strove to be known; your work is what mattered.

A couple men come forward to shake your hand, pleased to see you. You ignore the way a few pairs of eyes dip to your exposed ankles. You’re scanned and assessed, and whether you’re found wanting is forgotten, for you feel the touch of someone’s hand on your arm and turn your head towards the source.

“Oppie. Back in one piece!” someone calls out.

You stare at the side of Dr. Oppenheimer’s face, your arm burning from where he touched you to slip past. Had he been that close behind you on your way there? You don’t think you could have missed him, though you were preoccupied with your thoughts.

“Yes. Well rested and ready to get back to work,” he replies, striding towards the front.

He doesn’t look your way, doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest, which is fine. It’s not out of the ordinary, and so you sit down on the edge of the group, ankles together under your desk.

“Oppie the Rancher, I don’t see it.”

You can. His hat reminds you of a frontiersman. You can picture him staring out across the desert on his horse, reins in hand.

“A night under the stars can do wonders for your mind, Richard,” Oppenheimer retorts, pointing with his pipe. “You should try it sometime.”

The men banter and you sink into your observer role with ease. At least they’re not acting that differently with a woman present. As more people fill the room, you relax into your chair with your notebook and pen at the ready.

You stand as Dr. Bethe enters, shaking his hand. You will report to him, the head of the theoretical division. Once he takes a seat, the noise dissipates, and Oppenheimer launches into the meeting.

You will have to play catch-up for some time, but it’s not altogether intimidating. You know you can dedicate all your time to this, since you have no family staying here.

Days are spent with your head full of equations. You drink cups of drip coffee over and over, and ashtrays are filled and emptied. You are among a team of theorists assigned to a specific task by Bethe, whose own intellect is dedicated to your cause.

The goal is to solve the issue of nitrogen fusing into magnesium, or, to understand the probability of the nitrogen atoms fusing. There isn’t data on this, and so you must calculate for this occurring every time a fission bomb would detonate. Every time, there is a chance that the bomb would cause a chain reaction.

You write out the calculations like everyone else, and each conclusion is the same. There is a chance that the atmosphere itself may ignite.

Everyone else begs for rest, but your mind won’t give you relief. You chain smoke, standing in front of the blackboard with your chalk aloft, as the world darkens around you. You ignore your rumbling stomach, finishing the calculation again with a short sigh. Stepping back, you hear:

“What are you doing here?”

You turn your head to see Oppenheimer standing by the doorway, lips parting at the sight of your face, his hat in his hand. He walks over, glancing at the board behind you.

“It’s the same,” he says, eyes darting left to right.

“I’ve done this ten times,” you murmur. “Theory always leaves near zero chance of catastrophe.”

“Near zero,” he repeats, pulling in a breath. “Yes, I know.”

The weight of this is as much a reality to you as a theory, since this isn’t a classroom back in California, but a laboratory equipped with hundreds of scientific minds all working to build the same weapon. There are marbles representing very real plutonium in the fishbowl six feet away from you.

“I don’t wish to be an alarmist,” you add.

He looks at you again, eyes dipping to your mouth, and you feel a stir beneath your navel. To your surprise, he gives a small smile, but it’s not condescending. You’ve seen him give those out plenty before but have yet to receive one yourself.

“Your fears are valid, though not entirely necessary,” he murmurs. “I just got back from Michigan. I left in a panic about theory. But theory can only take you so far.”

You recall not seeing him for a couple days, though you are prone to missing others when you’re stuck in your own head. Oppenheimer is the exception, always.

He moves to lean against the desk beside you and you follow him, perching yourself at the edge as he looks down at his hat.

“I needed to speak to Compton about the potential chain reaction, of course there’s no possibility of speaking about it on the telephone-”

“So, you took a train all the way to see him?” you ask, and he nods. “But now you seem calm.”

“Not calm,” he says, though his voice is level. “More understanding that there’s a 3-in-a-million chance of total apocalypse.”

Those chances, though conceptually low, are not non-existent. You watch as he glances up at you once more, the air leaving the room. His eyes implore you.

“Near zero.”

“Near zero,” he echoes, his voice a near whisper. He places his hat back on his head.

You push off the desk and pick up the eraser, beginning to wipe the board clean of your calculations. When you finish, you look over at him again, frowning.

“If you’re more understanding, why are you here?”

It’s possible he didn’t go home because he needed to work this all out, like you. He keeps staring back at you, intimidating you as always, causing heat to rise at the back of your neck. In the low light, you hope it’s undetectable.

“The light was on. I saw you through the window.”

You swallow, ducking your head. “Oh.”

You place the eraser back on the ledge, and the space between you seems to shrink though neither of you move. You might be imagining the way he takes you in. He’s the director, and he has valid concerns for his staff.

But you’re no fool. His gaze is too familiar, especially when he nods at you, saying:

“Grab your things. I’ll work you out.”

You obey, following him out, switching off the light along the way. As you walk together down the halls, your footsteps echoing, you smell him beside you. He is tobacco, and body odour. Nothing sharp or unpleasant, but intimate, a semi-sweet musk. You smell the dust on his jacket and think of him sitting astride his horse with that thousand-yard stare.

You exit the building with nods to the guards, bringing you back to the present. You don’t want to leave him there in the street, but his residence is nowhere near yours as far as you know. You think of his wife, not for the first time, and wonder what he tells her about what they’re doing here.

“I’m this way,” you murmur.

Oppenheimer doesn’t respond how you expect, walking beside you for a few minutes instead of leaving you to find your way home alone. The silence between you in companionable, not strained, which feels like a miracle to you. From memory, he has never been someone you had a poor encounter with. It feels like a fluke, but statistically, it makes sense.

Your head still reels with equations, probabilities, and dire consequences. The chances of sleeping are so low, but you still wish him goodnight when you arrive at your residence.

There are people in the street, some glancing your way, seeing him and wave. He lifts a hand but doesn’t greet them further. He waits, watching you try to figure out how to leave him.

“Try to sleep.”

“I don’t know how likely that is,” you admit, turning back to him.

His hands are on his hips, and he smiles knowingly.

“I need you sharp tomorrow.”

You stand so close to one another now that his voice is low, the intimacy of the moment spreading over you.

“You’re no longer Sisyphus, you can rest.”

You think about pointing out the hypocrisy of this. You doubt he finds it easy to sleep at night, under the stars or otherwise.

“I think it’s more like the incy wincy spider,” you say, emboldened by his proximity to you. “Not quite as tragic.”

He chuckles and you smile back at him. He steps back, nodding a little. “Have a good night.”

He waits for you to go to your door, and you open it, glancing back at him for a moment. His smile returns, an understanding shade to his eyes.

“Remember the sun comes out again,” he calls.

He takes off, and you shut the front door behind you, leaning your forehead against it as you exhale.

Thank you for reading! 🖤 Likes, reblogs and replies are always appreciated and genuinely motivate me. 🥺

#oppenheimer x y/n #oppenheimer x reader #j robert oppenheimer #fem reader #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy x reader #near zero

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youthereader · 5 months

Text

Near Zero part 6.

PAIRING: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 1.1k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

RATING: E; barebacking, infidelity, age gap (10+ years), secret relationship

A/N: Although based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character, and does not intend to be accurate. This is merely for entertainment. This is the first of two parts in Santa Fe! A little smutty, a little fluffy.

masterlist

You would be forgiven for forgetting there is a wide, wide world beyond Los Alamos by how isolated it is. The train takes you and a dozen colleagues out to Santa Fe and in between listening to the men speaking, you take in the countryside.

Though the days are getting colder, the sun remains, everything swallowed by its brightness as the train crawls along. You are wedged between Robert and the window, and hear Feynman admit to bringing his bongos.

“Whatever for?” you chuckle. “Richard, your poor wife.”

Robert had been jealous of Feynman when you danced during the mixer, but Richard was happily married, coming along to visit his spouse in Santa Fe as she was treated for tuberculosis.

“It might do her some good,” he retorts, shrugging.

“Or get you thrown out.”

He rolls his eyes. Lately, you’ve been teased for being a bore again, which suits you fine. Since the incident with Nichols, you don’t want to stick out at all, or to be seen as adventurous. He granted the weekend pass, but up until boarding that morning you hadn’t felt sure of anything.

The journey is a little over an hour, and once you arrive, Robert lets you past him to make your descent from the carriage. Your group idles in the entryway to the station, before you break off into pairs or trios. Some are leaving to find a bar, others to the few hotels in town. You have your suitcase in one hand and your coat in the other, Feynman and Robert shaking hands and separating.

There are worse things, to be seen with Robert walking down the main street, you suppose. You give Feynman a short wave as he goes to find transport to the hospital, keen to see his wife. Robert beside you, his hand touches the small of your back.

“You should have sent your things ahead,” he murmurs.

“I can carry this,” you say, but he stoops to take your suitcase from you.

You walk together to the hotel, reaching the front desk and check in separately. You join again at the steps to the elevator, eyes meeting.

“Meet you here in an hour for lunch?” he asks, friendly.

“Of course, Oppie,” you reply, beaming at him. “See you then.”

You arrive at your room, your suitcase with a bellhop beside you. You give him a generous tip, shutting the door as you kick off your shoes. You take out a cigarette and light it, tossing aside your hat on a chair as you walk through. Your room is modest, but far grander than anything you’ve ever slept in. Like so many others before the war, the struggle to make ends meet meant only dreaming of rooms like this, with a bed made for you, tiny little soaps and monogrammed towels on rails in a washroom all to yourself.

There’s a knock in the distance as you wander, and you move back to the door to answer it, not peeking through the spyhole. Robert stands there without his hat, hands on his hips.

You smile at him, letting him through. You agreed earlier that being seen taking separate elevators, going to two different rooms, was the better idea.

“How is your view?” he murmurs, coming through.

You follow him as he looks out the window, lifting your cigarette back to your lips. He takes in the stretch of street below.

“It’s better now,” you murmur.

He takes a moment for the words to stick, and he glances back, his eyes dropping to your bare feet.

“Are you sure you don’t mind I visit your room? I only would impose in case mine was bugged.”

He makes it sound as if he is unworthy of your attention, and you glance away with a smile, exhaling.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, and you stare at him, your cheeks warm. “You are always so beautiful.”

Occasionally his words still astonish you, even after learning his language over the years. He approaches you, hands coming up to hold your face. You kiss him for the first time in days, sighing as he pulls you into an embrace. When he pulls back, he takes your cigarette for a quick puff.

“Are you quite hungry yet?” you murmur.

“Starving,” he replies, and he kisses you again.

He all but devours you as you walk into the bedroom, cigarette hastily mashed in the ashtray, the dish nearly knocked off the nightstand in your hurry. Your tongues tangle as you give yourself to him, your chest a vice as your pour into him, holding his face as your hips cradle his.

A bed. A whole bed to yourselves, and it’s heavenly. His hand is under your dress and between your thighs, your breath catching as he rubs you over your underwear, the weight of his body on yours pressing you further down…

In no time at all, you both are naked, rolling together with the blankets pushed aside. Your hair curtains you both as you lie on top of him, your legs twining. Not quite joined, you stretch out the moment longer, revelling in the fact that there are no barriers between you. This is the first time you’ve seen each other completely naked, and he can’t stop touching you everywhere, caressing you and kissing you.

You cry out when he pushes inside you, pulling you down, your whole body shaking as he stretches, his blue eyes endless beneath you. The smell of his bare skin makes you want to cry.

“Robert,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut when he rubs where he splits you open.

He kisses the column of your neck and grazes his teeth there, knees pulling up for better leverage, fucking you slow and hard. You dissolve into pure pleasure, slumping forward as he holds you against him, chest to chest…

“Darling,” he whispers, and then he curls his fingers in your hair.

You kiss him hard, having recovered enough to be fully within your body once again. He groans, muffled against your lips. You cling to one another, and you sense him trying to delay the inevitable, his breath coming in short pants against your neck. The push and pull of your bodies becomes a frenzy, as he gives in to it all, pulling back at the last second to finish on your stomach.

You both stare down at the mess, panting together, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Are you alright?” he whispers, and you nod dazedly.

“I would like a drink now,” you whisper, and he nods.

A beat or two and then he begins to chuckle, long and low, slumping so he lies half on top of you, his growing laughter filling your ears.

Also, congratulations to Cillian for winning the Golden Globe for Oppenheimer! I was at work when he won so I didn't get to see his speech live. :/ Anyway, thank you for reading and know that all likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. 🖤

Taglist: @indulgence-be-thy-name @forgottenpeakywriter

#oppenheimer x reader #oppenheimer x y/n #cillian murphy x reader #fem reader #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy #near zero #j robert oppenheimer

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