They meet at a Civil Rights demonstration in D.C.
He's up on the podium, light brown hair falling in his eyes and covering the thick-framed glasses that rest on his nose. His white dress shirt is rolled up at his elbows and the microphone in his hand is turned up to ten, carrying messages of universal coexistence through the hot, humid air.
It's all she can do not to swoon slightly. Maybe it's the heat, or maybe this is just what she has been needing for far to long now.
Brotherly love. How refreshing.
He asks her out for a cup of coffee afterwards, and she gladly accepts.
They already know they're kindred spirits—now it's just a matter of finding out why.
He's curious as to why she came. It's not a very safe past-time, even in 1961, and she seems like a smart enough girl.
All it takes is for her to flash him her business card, though, for it to all make sense.
It's the whole brotherly love thing again.
Jimmy Soul warned him and the rest of the radio-listeners that if they want to be happy for the rest of their lives, they should marry ugly wives.
He doesn't listen.
Their honeymoon—three weeks in Cape Cod—is overshadowed by the announcement that the Soviets have placed medium-range ballistic missiles in Cuba, and that they might all be dead within two weeks.
They don't care.
At least they'll die together.
There are moments, days, weeks where it feels like everything is in vain. That all the hard work they're doing is for nothing, because everyone is going to hell in a hand basket anyways.
One night, after a particularly frustrating conversation, he throws the handset of the phone across the room, sinking down into a kitchen chair, and burying his head in his hands.
"How the hell am I supposed to argue for racial understanding when I can't even get along with my own mother?!"
"Darling, my entire job description revolves around discovering faster ways to annihilate the entire Russian population. Don't talk to me about hatred."
JFK dies.
MLK dies.
RFK dies.
Hope is dead, and really has been for ages.
She runs. Away from the darkness of her past, and into the brightness of the life that is still ahead of her.
Particle formulas of plutonium become fuel ratio formulas, and she has never been happier.
For once, she is creating something beautiful, instead of destroying that beauty.
July 20th, 1969 is spent in agony.
They hold each other tightly, standing in the middle of their living room, watching breathlessly as the grainy footage comes through the television screen.
The fuel had worked. The engines had worked. And now the video was working.
"One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
She bursts into tears.
It's a struggle.
Wherever there's fire there has to be smoke.
But they wouldn't trade it for anything.
Because things are finally changing, and they are a part of that change.
For more stories, click on "Readwriteedit".