Vincent didn't speak to the elusive Morrow for another four days. When he did, it was mostly by accident. He ran into the guy—actually ran straight into him, wheelchair and all—going around a corner on the way to clean the bathroom. He ended up almost falling in Morrow's lap, but the man caught him with surprisingly strong arms (perhaps not so surprising for such an utter valid) and pushed him back onto his feet again.

Vincent blushed and stammered, "I'm sorry, sir. I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

"In a hurry?" Morrow said coolly. By the tilt of his eyebrows, he was amused.

Vincent gritted his teeth, his face only growing hotter. Valids and their condescension. He would take it from the directors, and he would take it from the more experienced workers here, but he didn't need to take it from the random new guy who looked down on him for holding the best job he could with his genetic status. "Yes. I have a job."

He took a step to the right of Morrow, but Morrow grabbed his arm. "A moment."

"I have a job," Vincent repeated.

"And you can get back to it in a moment," Morrow said. "You had enough time the other day, didn't you?"

Vincent glared at him, remembering how late the idiot had made him. "No, I didn't. And…" He paused. "You remember me?"

Real Gattaca employees, the ones working on calculations, the ones that someday would go to the stars, never wasted brain space on remembering the names of people lower on the totem pole, janitors and the like. And Morrow was just the sort of snob to forget receiving help, especially from someone like Vincent. But then, it had been only four days. Perhaps that helped a bit. He wasn't a full blown Gattaca man yet.

Morrow narrowed his eyes impatiently. "Of course. I'm crippled, not brain dead."

Okay, so still the arrogant Gattaca man. Vincent rolled his eyes and was about to retort when his brain processed the second half of that response. Wait. "Crippled?"

Morrow blinked.

Vincent looked at Morrow's face. Then at the wheelchair. Then at Morrow's face again. An idea was slowly blossoming in his mind—the idea that he, Vincent, was acting kind of like a jerk.

"Uh," he said after a moment of Morrow just staring at him had passed. "Sorry. I hadn't realized…"

"What did you think the wheelchair was for?"

"Sprained ankle?" Vincent suggested, and he winced at the look Morrow shot him in return. In retrospect, of course a valid would be far too proud to take up a wheelchair over something that minor. Especially a man like Morrow seemed to be.

He expected Morrow to give him a good tongue lashing. But instead, Morrow simply said, "Paralyzed from the waist down."

Vincent bit his lip. To ask him how he had been paralyzed would be rude. To ask him how he had managed to get hired with such a disability (at Gattaca, of all places) would be even worse. Instead he said, "Sorry. What was it you wanted?"

Morrow continued to glare at him, sitting straight up in his chair, hands tensed on the wheels. He said, "You know your way around the building."

"Yes." Of course he did. He'd mopped pretty much every hall of it by now, and wandered daydreaming through each of them in turn when the work was done.

"I can't find Director Josef's office," Morrow said. "Show me the way there."

His tone was demanding, angry. Even at Gattaca people were generally more polite when making a request. Condescending, but not so confrontational. Vincent sighed. "Sure." He would have to have patience with Morrow. After all, a moment ago he had been rather rude himself.

Morrow nodded briskly and gestured with his hand for Vincent to lead the way.

"It's the other direction," Vincent said.

Morrow did not respond, but narrowed his eyes a little bit more. Vincent shook his head and started walking, trying to ignore Morrow's eyes on his back and instead focus on the sound of the wheels turning behind him.

It only took a few minutes to reach the hall where Director Josef's office was. Vincent pointed out the correct door, and Morrow began to move past him before pausing at his side. He bit his lip and lowered his gaze.

"What?" Vincent said. "Need anything else?"

He sure hoped not. He should have been well at work on cleaning the bathroom by now.

"No," Morrow said.

"Well then," Vincent said. "Have a good meeting." He pushed aside a frisson of jealousy—Someday, he swore, he would become a Gattaca employee for real and have meetings with the directors himself. And then, he wouldn't feel vindictive towards his coworkers, only the camaraderie of the chosen, those who had created for themselves success. If he had snatched his from the jaws of defeat, he would only be the more proud of his presence in their company.

"Stop," Morrow called out as Vincent walked away.

"What is it?" Vincent said, pausing at the corner.

Morrow said, "Thank you for showing me the way here. And for helping me get in the other day."

"Any time," Vincent said. Was that all? He had thought it would be something dire. Morrow was still staring at the ground in utter embarrassment, so he added, "You're very welcome. It was nothing. Call it part of my job to help Gattaca's physicists."

Morrow nodded and abruptly swiveled his chair and rolled away to knock on the director's door. Vincent shrugged (despite knowing Morrow wouldn't see it) and headed back to clean the bathroom.

When he spoke to Caesar later, he told the man that Morrow had actually turned out to be a paraplegic, not simply affected by a temporary injury. Caesar grew even more curious, of course, and asked what had caused the paralysis, how he had still managed to get hired, how long ago the accident was—question after question. Vincent could only shrug to most of them.

"Tell me you at least got his first name."

"No," Vincent said. "It didn't come up." In retrospect, he really should have asked. The man was quite interesting, and even if the name never came in handy again, at least he could have looked up his records and figured out a little more about him.

Caesar shook his head at Vincent's idleness and told him to get back to work, as if he had never been interrogating him in the first place. Vincent did so.

It could have been quite a while before Vincent found anything else out about Morrow, even his first name. The maintenance staff and the more distinguished workers didn't interact that often, and Vincent knew sooner or later Morrow would actually figure out how to navigate the Gattaca complex. But Vincent was too curious to wait for a few more weeks to find out something as basic as the man's name, and he was too aware of Gattaca's social norms to approach the man and actually question him. He suspected such an attempt would garner little from Morrow but his contempt, no actual answers.

Instead, he carefully observed Morrow and found the location of his work desk, fairly close to the door most likely so that he wouldn't have to wheel all the way around the room. Fairly considerate for Gattaca's directors, but then, Director Josef did seem to esteem Morrow's presence in the company. The desk was already messy after only a week or so of Morrow working there, so Vincent knew his chances would be fairly good. He had worried—the man seemed somewhat snobby and fastidious—but people's pride didn't always extend to their workplace, and Morrow was perhaps the type to care more about his personal appearance than his environment.

Either way, it worked to Vincent's advantage.

He was assigned to clean the main work space only a few days after he had determined his plan, and while he usually spent about half his time there sitting at the computers, pretending to type and occasionally hacking in to see what kind of programs and flight plans the physicists had been working on, today he did something slightly different. He sat down at Morrow's desk, but instead of examining his notes (and he had an actual notebook lying sloppily beside the computer, honestly, who used those anymore?) or playing with the computer, he sorted through the mess on Morrow's desk, carefully looking for one thing and one thing only: a hair.

He found several, and tucked them all into a small contained he had brought in the bulky pockets of his janitor uniform. Then he carefully placed all the papers and various objects (and seriously, how had Morrow even managed to create such a mess in only a week?) back where they had been. Hopefully no one would be able to tell he'd been there. He'd been careful not to leave any hair or DNA of his own behind—perhaps some sweat or fingerprints were still on the notebook, but nothing worth noting.

He took the hairs to one of those places that weren't supposed to exist, where they would give you the records connected with the DNA without asking you why you needed it or whether you had a right to it. Perhaps he felt a bit guilty. But it was hardly an uncommon practice. Every time he'd asked for a job, he knew his possible employer had done the same. He had even heard of lovers doing it without each other's permission to see if dating was worth the time.

Morrow's full name, as it turned out, was Jerome Eugene Morrow. Jerome. Vincent rolled the name over his tongue, and rolled his eyes. A grand, strong name for a man so arrogant. A thoroughly valid name, solid and dependable. He smirked a little at the idea of nicknaming him Jerry before moving on to the rest of the profile.

It wasn't a place that gave you the background of the person with the DNA unless you paid extra, and Vincent didn't feel comfortable for asking for such a thing. It did, however, read the person's genes quite thoroughly. Morrow had the heart of an ox and a strong body to match—nothing Vincent couldn't have guessed. He was not susceptible to illnesses, and had no genetics pointing towards any particular ailments.

He scanned the rest of it, already satisfied that Morrow had a far better lease on life than Vincent or any invalid. The man's genes were phenomenal, even better than those of most Gattaca navigators. It was no wonder the director had been eager to welcome him to Gattaca. Most likely the only disappointment was that Morrow's paralysis wouldn't allow him to go to space. Shame.

The closest thing Morrow had to a risk factor was a chance of clinical depression, and even there the risk was only about one percent. Vincent had paid attention to his psychology class in high school. He knew an illness such as depression was unlikely to manifest without both the possibility inherent in the man's genetic code and stressful circumstances. Perhaps he could develop depression after being paralyzed from the waist down, a depressing enough experience, but it was only a one percent chance, and up until the accident he must have been living the life of the pampered elite. Vincent shook his head.

Genes said Morrow was destined to a happy life, long and healthy. Well, they had gotten him a position at Gattaca but they hadn't saved his legs. So in one way at least luck favored him less than Vincent. He would remember it for the future, a piece of encouragement when he was tempted to give up on Gattaca hiring him. Fortune favored who it would, genetic code or no.

/…/…/

Eugene was at least ten minutes late to his meeting with Director Josef, but the director excused him, although not before making it quite obvious that he was overlooking Eugene's flaws ("your lack of punctuality") because, of course, with his recent trauma ("after going through such a difficult experience") he could not be held to the same standards as all of the other Gattaca employees. That and the fact that he was apparently doing excellent work so far, and his genetic code and history were both beyond all expectations.

The attitude left Eugene unsure whether the director was condescending to him because of his paralysis or giving him special privileges because of his ever-so-wonderful genetic code, his incomparable validity. One thing was for certain: Josef was interested in him. Eugene doubted he called all employees into private meetings only a week into their employment, and in truth the discussion was hardly essential. He was asked if the facilities were sufficient to accommodate his disability—he said yes, holding back from mentioning that they barely sufficed. Josef didn't inquire further. Instead they ended up discussing swimming, the Olympics, and of course Gattaca's standards, Josef's favorite topic. Eugene got the feeling he was supposed to be basking in some sense of elitism with the director, feeling companionship with this man who, like him, clearly had the genes of a superior man.

So he smiled, stopped himself from saying anything too cross or inflammatory (which made him hold back about half of what he wanted to say, perhaps more) and accepted a glass of Director Josef's wine.

He enjoyed the wine. That didn't change the fact that he hated Director Josef.

He hated everyone at Gattaca. A bunch of snobbish idiots. All right, not idiots—most of them did advanced physics and could probably have worked about a dozen different jobs. It was fashionable for the valid elite to be a renaissance man, as Eugene's own parents. So they were all very smart. Didn't change the fact that the most tolerable person Eugene had met at Gattaca so far was still the janitor who had let him into the building his first day at work. That didn't exactly say anything good about the company. Or perhaps it said something about Eugene himself. He suspected half the reason he had liked the man (to an extent) was the fact that at least around the maintenance, he didn't have to hide his foul mood.

Still, the janitor had been considerate, if terminally awkward. So Eugene was somewhat pleased when he ran into him again two weeks into his new job, and even more pleased when he managed to hold an actual conversation with the janitor instead of instead of passive aggressively trailing him around Gattaca's hallways.

See, he could be an adult.

When he ran into the janitor for the third time (although this time not literally, which was nice after their tempestuous second meeting) he was technically already supposed to be at home. It was about an hour after the Gattaca employees had trailed out of the building, and he had already logged in his hours. But he had lingered too long in the bathroom and then realized he had left his cell phone at his desk. Usually he would have just left it there and gone home, too lazy to return and well aware how unlikely it was that anyone would call him, especially over his cell phone rather than his home phone. But it was a Friday, and it was just barely possible he would want it over the weekend. So he rolled his eyes and rolled back to the main work room and hoped no one would notice he was still there an hour after he should have left, with most of the lights in the building turned off to save electricity except where the staff was cleaning up from the busy week.

He managed to evade the questioning gazes of all the janitors until he got to the actual work room. There, among desks and computers and occasional junk like his, he spotted the first person he'd seen since fleeing the same room earlier as soon as the work day was done. Well, he spotted the vacuum first, to be honest, and prepared himself to make excuses as to why he was still there, or perhaps to glare at whoever it was until they let it be. But when he did see the person there, it was the same janitor who he'd met twice already, and he wasn't cleaning. He was sitting in the chair at the desk (and it was Eugene's desk, of all the desks in the room!) with his fingers poised over the keyboard, staring at the powered down screen of the computer as intently as the most diligent physicist in Gattaca's hire.

For a moment Eugene wondered if the janitor was delusional, perhaps the reason he couldn't get a better job in the first place. Perhaps he was having some kind of a fit or a flashback and believed there was something actually on the computer screen, that he was actually getting work done. If that was the case, should Eugene wake him out of his daze, or leave him be, or perhaps find one of his coworkers who would be familiar with his fits?

He had about decided to go find whoever was the head honcho among the janitors and let him take care of the problem when the janitor's lips twitched, and Eugene finally recognized the look on his face—not the look of a manic having a hallucination, but the look of a child playing pretend.

Playing pretend at being a Gattaca navigator. Eugene sighed. If he thought too much longer about this it was going to get depressing. Instead, he spoke, breaking the silence that lay in the room like a layer of dust: "That's my desk."

The janitor's head jerked up, and Eugene watched his eyes widen. He could almost hear the thoughts running through the man's head, confusion, embarrassment, defensiveness. He waited for a response.

Finally, the janitor said, "Uh, sorry to get in your way. I didn't think anyone was still here." He stood up (and if he knew how much that small action would mean to Eugene, he would never dream of such great wonders as being an astronaut again) and added, "I'll just get out of your way now. Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine," Eugene said. "It's just…If you're pretending to be an astronaut, that's not the right desk."

"I wasn't…"

"I'm not going to outer space," Eugene said. "I'm just one of the people who sits here on planet Earth and runs calculations. Thoroughly grounded." His hands pressed against the wheels of his chair. "So if you want to be an astronaut and go to the stars, you should probably sit somewhere else. I'm not exactly dream material."

The janitor hesitated. Then, slowly, he lowered himself back into the seat at Eugene's desk. "Just working with the team. That's the dream."

"I suppose I do that," Eugene muttered.

"Yeah," the janitor said. "Well. It would be the first step." He smiled, uncertainly. "I suppose I'd like to go to the stars as much as anyone else."

He crossed his arms when Eugene failed to answer immediately. "Well? Isn't that your dream too? If you're working at Gattaca…"

"Not really, no," Eugene said. "Didn't really come here for any of that."

The janitor stared at the blank computer screen. "Then why?"

For some reason, on being asked, all of Eugene's rationalizations for the life he was living seemed to crumble into dust. He muttered something incoherent and rolled over to the desk, picking up his cell phone which was lying right next to the keyboard of the computer. The janitor blushed and moved the chair back a bit to get out of his way.

"You're fine," Eugene said.

"I am sorry. I mean, I'm just sitting in your chair," the janitor said. "If you need me to get out, I can."

"No. I'm on my way out now," Eugene said. "Took me a bit longer than usual, but." He shrugged. "Have to go home now."

Home to his huge, empty house, where he could get raucously drunk and yell profanities that would echo against the walls, and wake up in the morning with a sore throat and a headache and the lack of embarrassment that followed the realization that it didn't matter what he yelled or how loud he yelled it—no one would hear him anyways. Home, he told himself, to sleep off the week and prepare himself for the next, and try to ignore the fact that none of them led anywhere, that he might be living from week to week but in the time since the accident nothing had really changed except that he was in a wheelchair and did regular physical therapy. Home to realize he couldn't, actually, ignore that fact. Home to ogle his set of kitchen knives and then laugh off the ludicrous notion of staining his clean steel kitchenware with blood.

(If he did it, he would slit his wrists this time. A classic, after all. And considering the fact that no one ever visited his house, there would be minimal interference. It would be less risky this time. And he couldn't live through another attempt. He didn't know what he would lose next.)

"Why are you still here?" the janitor asked. "I mean, not that you don't have a right to be here. But everyone else is gone. And you weren't at your desk until now."

Eugene summoned a fake smile and said, "I got lost in thought in the bathroom."

This was in fact the truth. Said lightly, it sounded like a joke. No janitor had to know that he had spent nearly an hour staring in the mirror, trying to sort out his thoughts and gather the motivation to move, get out of the building and go home. Trying to remember why he bothered living.

"Yeah," the janitor said, apparently taking his senseless excuse seriously. "I guess everyone does that sometimes."

Eugene offered another smile in response, unsure what to say. He tucked his cell phone in his pants pocket. "I suppose I ought to be going."

"Yeah," the janitor said. "And I should get back to work." He scrambled out of the seat again and reached for the vacuum.

"Well, good luck with that," Eugene said. He began to wheel his chair back and then stopped. "By the way, thank you for showing me around those two times." He extended a hand. "I'm Jerome Eugene Morrow. Call me Eugene."

Odd. He hadn't told anyone to call him Eugene in a while. In the Olympics he had used the name Jerome because it seemed more suitable for an Olympic contender, and it had become a habit. Everyone at Gattaca called him either Morrow or Jerome, and mostly Morrow. He had gotten out of the habit of asking people to call him Eugene even though it was the name he had always preferred.

Then again, no need to stand on ceremony and last names with a janitor, and no need to try to use a more dignified name with him either. And with even his parents calling him Jerome lately, it might be nice to hear the name Eugene from someone.

The janitor stared at Eugene's hand for a moment, then with a laugh said, "Vincent Freeman. Nice to meet you."

They shook hands, and Vincent's grip was surprisingly strong. Eugene grinned and squeezed really hard back, until he could Vincent's fingers grinding together. Vincent grinned right back and squeezed as well, but couldn't manage to grip as hard as Eugene. When they let go, Eugene laughed. "I won," he said smugly. The small accomplishment pleased him more than getting into Gattaca had.

Vincent's smile twitched. Perhaps he was actually mad. Oh well. Eugene had been wanting to mess with Gattaca staff ever since he was hired and holding back the urge. The janitor would have to deal with it.

He waved a sketchy goodbye and as he rolled away he heard the vacuum turn on.

/.../.../

/.../.../

/.../.../

AN: This story...is weird. Frankly if it weren't such a small fandom I doubt I'd be writing it at all (oneshots are more my forte), but I feel like every fandom needs a few multi-chapter AU fics. So I've been trying.

Til now, this story has been very focused on Vincent and Eugene's slowly growing friendship. That will continue, but some more elements will be thrown in soon. So. We'll see. If you have any ideas as to what could appear in this AU, or any opinion of what has come so far: Reviews are much appreciated. I will love you.