Man, did I want to get this chapter out sooner-but alas, I have a full time job and not the time I once had when we were in lockdown. It's been a while since I've realized how much it sucks to not write when you're in a writing mood! And after a week and a half of work, a Carly Rae Jepsen concert, and getting the Oppenheimer script in the mail, here we are!

Think I Wanna Twist the Plot This Time

"There's something about you, something about you.

If my life was fiction…"

—"Maradona" The Chainsmokers

So. Barbie had World War II and San Francisco on her mind, and now she's here. She looks back up at The Dawn Club, its blazing neon sign above enticing her inside, along with the muffled brass of a band playing live music. When Barbie plays music, it's always guitars and drums, something more modern. When she sings, it's usually a bubbly pop song. But… this is modern now. This is what Ryan's mom listens to on Sundays, according to Sasha. She calls it "boring," but with its uptempo swing, people walking in and out of the club with huge smiles on their faces… is it really?

Barbie tosses the old newspaper back into the trash and walks toward the club, her confidence building as she hears the familiar click of her heels on the pavement. Sure, her feet will tire a lot more easily now, but it's easily forgotten when that sound is so enticing. She's almost forgotten it; almost forgotten why she loved heels in the first place. Not that she thinks there's some real reason she's here other than she just let her mind wander for too long, but something about The Dawn Club, on this warm summer evening, tells her that whatever adventure she's looking for is in its walls.

A man stepping out holds the door open for her, and Barbie smiles at him, grateful. "Thank you," she says politely.

"Anytime, doll." He tips his hat, but her smile disappears. Right. She's back in a man's world, one even more unfair than when Ken took over Barbie Land.

"May I take your coat and gloves, ma'am?" A few steps in, and there's a coat check clerk in a tailored red uniform, holding his gloved hands out. Just before the door closes, she catches a glimpse of a disturbing sign posted on it: "No Japanese. No Colored."

It's also a white man's world, Barbie reminds herself, her smile halfheartedly returning as she gives her belongings to the clerk after taking her wallet. "Yes, thank you. I hope you have a good evening."

The clerk's smile, which looked rehearsed before, suddenly turns genuine as his dark eyes crinkle in the corners. "You, too, ma'am. You enjoy yourself in there," he returns, leading her toward the bar area.

The thick scent of cigarette smoke hits her like a brick wall the moment Barbie makes her way inside, and she gives a light cough, realizing she's just going to have to get used to it. Practically every patron is smoking, cigarettes in hand in between whatever concoctions the bartender's made. She's in a time where doctors consider this "healthy," a time Barbie only faintly remembers from the beginning of her existence. People smoke back home too, sure, but it's always outside, always in alleyways or through vape pens that smell like cotton candy.

At the end of the club is the stage, made of polished wood, where six bandmates play too close together. These are instruments Barbie doesn't see on stages anymore unless you know where to look, from the clarinet to the stand-up bass. They're playing something a little slower tempo, one where couples dance together on the dance floor in front of the stage with heads on chests and shoulders, arms wrapped delicately around waists and shoulders. Beyond that, small tables surrounding the stage, littered with discarded drinks from the couples dancing, or parties in quiet conversation, leaning in so they can hear each other. Barbie heads to the right, to the bar, since she's all alone. As she walks, she feels eyes lingering on her—men leering at her pink outfit and her legs, women frowning because apparently it's a crime to stand out.

She flushes as she takes a seat at an empty barstool, as close to the door as she can to get some fresh air and reprieve from the smell of nicotine. The single men at the wooden bar lean over to glance at her for a moment, like they're testing to see if she's worth talking to. They all look older, but maybe it's the smoking.

The moment she sits, the bartender—another man of color working for the white patrons, she observes—makes his way over to her, cleaning a glass with a towel. "What can I get you, miss?" he asks, gesturing to the countless bottles lined up behind him.

Barbie swallows, overwhelmed by the selection. She's okay with pink, fruity cocktails in fancy receptacles, but everyone here nurses glasses of brown and clear liquids, and after she tried one of Ryan's aged bourbons over Thanksgiving, she's pretty sure straight alcohol is not for her.

Besides, best to be sober when she's not even in the right time and be aware of everything going on around her in case she needs to make a quick exit. "Seltzer water, please," she says lowly, placing a few coins on the bar.

The bartender holds his hand up, shaking his head. "No need."

"Oh, then… please accept this as a tip," she presses, pushing the coins toward him.

He nods after a moment, slowly taking the change. "You're too kind, miss. I'll have your drink in a moment."

"Thank you." Barbie decides to keep glancing around, taking everything in. She notes some faded rings of glass imprints underneath her fingers… and realizes her once plain nails are suddenly manicured to oval French tips, something she's just noticed now that her gloves are off. She looks just behind once the song ends, and she claps politely with the rest of the club. They look at her for a moment, before going back to their instruments to continue—perhaps wondering if she's going to dance at some point. Maybe. Maybe if she's feeling free enough to dance alone, which probably isn't socially acceptable 82 years in the past.

Maybe if she finds the right partner.

"Here's your drink, miss." The bartender sets Barbie's seltzer water before her, nodding.

"Thanks again." She turns to take a sip. She's gotten better at drinking, now that she needs to as a human. "I may want a refill at some point."

"I'll keep your tab open," he jokes, and they share a warm smile. Barbie watches his eyes dart to the side for a split second, and his smile disappears. He turns away without saying another word.

Barbie follows his gaze with simply her eyes, taking another sip. One of the patrons is staring daggers at the bartender for the little exchange. She has half a mind to say something to him, but causing trouble in a time where she doesn't belong probably isn't the right call.

Instead, she stares at him right back, keeping her eyes steely until he finally fixes his gaze back on his drink.

Gosh, maybe it was a mistake, coming here. It's hard enough to follow societal rules in her time, let alone another one.

Her train of thought gets interrupted at the arrival of the next patron, who gives his grey, wide brimmed hat to the coat clerk. Barbie watches him shimmy out of his coat, too big for his thin shoulders, before he nods in thanks and heads straight for the bar, sitting a couple of seats down from her. His eyes dart quickly to her, then to the bartender, vying for his attention as quickly as possible with raised fingers.

What is it, really, about interesting features that fascinate her so much? She loves people with crow's feet from smiling too hard, weathered fingers, people who embrace their greying hair. She loves smiles most of all, where she can see people at their happiest. But really, in the real world, she just loves features that not everyone would consider "pretty."

She's used to pretty. She knows soft features and flawless smiles—pressed, impeccable dresses and matching accessories. She even sees it in LA, most people working to look their best every day with kombucha and workout routines and plastic fillers. Barbie is surrounded by "pretty," "beautiful," "ethereal" every day of her existence. Even Kens are "pretty," with their chiseled jaws and muscled bodies. But the man who just walked into The Dawn Club is striking: sharp cheekbones, wide mouth, and piercing, sunken blue eyes. Eyes with a hint of sadness behind them, like they have seen and felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Barbie can't stop looking, as he's so fixated on the bartender, who finally attends to him. She watches his lips and thinks he says something along the lines of "Bourbon, please." Then he procures a pack of cigarettes and matches from his inside pocket, quickly lighting one and inhaling.

He's thin like a scarecrow, his jacket hanging onto his frame loosely, but his button down seems to fit a little better. His dark hair, clean and trimmed short behind his ears, stands in a few short, messy curls from being stuck under his hat. Barbie picks up her seltzer water again so he doesn't realize her staring, but she's mesmerized by his long fingers as they pull the cigarette from his mouth. He exhales long and low, smoke curling from his lips to the ceiling.

This isn't like when she met her first elderly lady, who wore life so well in her white tresses and small, confident stature. This is giving Barbie a fluttering in her stomach, her heartbeat quickening. She feels her cheeks heat up from the staring, and she looks into her seltzer water to distract herself, watching the carbonated bubbles rise to the surface. Even the jazz music fades into the background.

She's been on a couple of dates since moving to the real world, guys she's swiped right on Tinder who end up being just as pretty as Ken (and somehow more vapid). They spent dates either trying to mansplain IPA beers to Barbie or quickly confess what they'd like to do with her. None of those men have affected her the way this one is right now, and she hasn't even spoken a word to him. She wonders if he's even given her a second look—she's colorful enough for one at least, right?

The bartender places a glass of amber liquid in front of the man. He's able to balance his cigarette in between his index and middle fingers as he holds them both and downs the whole thing in one go. Barbie watches the long column of his neck bob as he swallows, then flags the bartender down for another round.

She notices the long drag he takes, the sigh he gives as he exhales again. His blue eyes stare blankly ahead, glazed over with that sadness she'd clocked in his expression as he walked in. He hasn't noticed her staring at all. He's too wrapped up with whatever's going on in his head.

Barbie takes a quick glimpse at his left hand. No ring. So she won't be overstepping her boundaries if she simply says hi. Just a nice conversation for this night she's trying to pave for herself. There's no harm in being friendly. The bartender places his second drink in front of him.

Her heart's pounding as she gets up with her seltzer water, sliding into the barstool beside him. Finally he glances over at her, blinks. Then blinks again, as if getting out of a trance. Those eyes seem to look either right at her or maybe through her, they're so blue. "Hello," he says after a moment, his voice low.

Barbie flashes him a grin. "Hi," she says back. "Would you mind if I sit with you? You just… you looked a little sad."

"A woman as stunning as yourself? Not in the slightest." He takes another glance at her, then takes a sip of his drink, not downing it like before. "I suppose I am a little melancholy. I had plans to meet someone tonight, at The Palace, but she… doesn't like when I take her calls." His voice is slow and distinct, enunciating each word with deliberate purpose. No one talks like this in her time. Woman. Stunning. Those are the words ringing in her ears.

"I'm sorry." Barbie's smile fades when he confesses he's been stood up.

"No—it's probably for the best," he counters with another drag, making sure he's facing away from her as he exhales. He taps the remnants into the ashtray in front of them, and her eyes go to his fingers once again. Her mind flashes the thought of them curled around her own, and she blinks the feeling away. "You're here alone?"

Barbie nods. "I'm just visiting for the evening." How much information is she allowed to disclose? Maybe she can skirt around everything with some half-truths and vague suggestions.

"As am I," he says. "But you're not from around here."

Is it the outfit? Her hair being longer than most other women she's seen tonight? Time to bring out the half-truths, so soon. "No, just… visiting from Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles," he repeats, nodding slowly. "You're an actress, I gather?"

Barbie flushes; that's how he's clocked her? Maybe all the pink isn't doing her any favors, even if she feels great in it. "I've… dabbled," she answers truthfully, remembering all her movie premieres in Barbie Land, all the fun premises she's filmed based on fairy tales. "But nothing I think you've ever seen. And I don't act much anymore." Though maybe she's putting on an act right now, trying to keep her story straight.

And maybe she should introduce herself, so she's not just some woman in pink to him and he's not just a man to her. She holds out her manicured hand, smiling again. "I'm Barbara Handler. But my friends call me 'Barbie.'"

He reaches over to shake her hand; his palm feels comfortably warm in hers and his handshake isn't too firm. Those long fingers, curled around her hand like she imagined. "Robert Oppenheimer."

The name clicks something familiar in her head, but Barbie can't seem to place it right now. It'll come to her later, she's sure.

"My students occasionally call me 'Oppie.'" It's the first instance of a smile she's seen formed on his face, his mouth just barely curling at the corners. His hand falls from hers back to the bar, then he takes another drag.

"'Oppie,'" she repeats, her smile only growing larger. She likes the way it sounds when she says it—and with the way he's still holding the tiniest of smiles, she thinks he likes it, too. "So… you're a teacher."

"Professor," he corrects, dousing the end of his cigarette on the ashtray. "Nearby at Berkeley."

"My sister school!" Barbie exclaims, starting to get a better feel for the conversation now. "I'm taking some classes at UCLA."

"Bruin, huh?" He raises a dark brow, seemingly impressed. "What's your field of study?"

"A little bit of everything," she replies. "Anthropology, sociology…" Women's studies, but she doubts that's a subject that even exists in this time period. "I find humans endlessly fascinating." Barbie leans forward onto the bar, finding her comfort zone.

"I'm sure you have quite a few opinions about the war, then," Oppenheimer surmises, shifting a bit on his stool to face her better. He crosses his legs when he sits. Barbie doesn't know many men who do that naturally.

The war. The war Barbie only knows through hindsight, but everyone here is living through it. She has to choose her words carefully. "I think… people really start to show their colors during desperate times." She remembers the sign at the door, remembers Gloria mentioning people rounded up like cattle for slaughter. "I can't believe someone would commit such atrocities against a whole group of people based on their beliefs, their looks…"

"My people," Oppenheimer interjects, taking another sip of his drink.

"Your…" Her hand instinctively reaches out to pat his arm gently, but she drops it. Right, not every person is okay with touching, much less right after meeting. "Oh, I'm… so sorry."

If Oppenheimer is perturbed or off-put by the gesture, he doesn't show it. "Would you mind if I pose a hypothetical question?" he asks instead, his eyes boring into hers. Barbie has no idea if she's ever seen eyes this blue from someone in the real world—they make her want to be nothing but honest.

"No—ask away." She taps her nails absently on the wood, as if she never meant to touch his arm in the first place. The band announce they're going to take a break, and the sound of quiet conversation and glasses clinking fill the air instead of the music.

"Do you believe the ends justify the means?" he asks, probably thinking Barbie has a higher degree than what she's letting on. She blinks, wondering what he means by this.

"I think it depends on the situation," Barbie replies slowly. Maybe she should give an example. "Like… I had to stop a good friend of mine from taking over my home for the worst." Probably the easiest way to say she and the other Barbies (and Gloria, Sasha, and Allan) stopped the Kens from enacting an entirely skewed patriarchy to Barbie Land, but it's all she had to work with. "But I never would have stooped low enough to intentionally really hurt him, even with what was at stake."

"Hm." She can see the corners of his mouth lifting again; is he amused by her answer? "I suppose now's not the time to be so general, or vague." He produces the pack of cigarettes and matches from his pocket again, pulling one out with his lips.

Barbie's mouth goes dry, the fluttering in the pit of her stomach starting up once more. This is different from when she sees a cute guy at the grocery store, or walking past her when she gets to school. This is primal, her body literally telling her that she wants him. What exactly that want is, she's still too scared to dig deeper for it.

Oppenheimer turns the pack to her, silently offering her a cigarette. Politely, Barbie just holds up a hand and shakes her head. "No, thank you." No elaboration. No lecture about how cigarettes age your skin and are the leading cause of lung cancer, like she's heard Gloria go on about so Sasha never starts up.

He simply shrugs, lighting up and putting the packs back in his inside pocket. What is it about the smell on him that isn't so terrible? Is it because he's still aware enough to exhale away from her? "What I meant to posit, Barbie, is if you believe the ends justify the means when it comes to ending this war?"

It's the first time he's said her name. In the low, calculated way he speaks, it sounds so… intimate.

But back to the question. Her lack of an answer for the moment means he thinks she's thinking about it, right?

The war isn't going to end for another three years. It ends in awful bombs and beachfront storming, but the world isn't exactly all at war back home, so perhaps in this case, the ends do justify the means. But he shouldn't know that. He can't know that. So now she has to wax philosophy—certainly something she doesn't think she can pull off because, well, they never made a Barbie who studied Descartes for a living. And yet those piercing eyes are looking back at her, expecting an answer, and if it's not something interesting or something he might want to hear she's afraid he's probably going to find some excuse to leave and now she's alone again.

"I think… however the war ends, whatever methods are going to be used to end it are going to change our entire world. I don't really think for the better, either." She's choosing her words as she says them, hoping that they're being strung along into something that's at least cohesive. "Whether or not that's justified?" She shrugs, taking a long sip of her seltzer water; God, she needs it. "That remains to be seen."

Oppenheimer smiles around his cigarette, the corners of those blue eyes crinkling oh-so-slightly. Looks like she can breathe a sigh of relief. "I don't mean to impose such a philosophical query as a means of gauging your character," he insists, a hint of almost a chuckle in his voice. "You're already effortlessly beguiling. I was just curious."

Barbie flushes again; she doubts any man back home would use those words to describe her. She hears "hot" quite a bit, to the point where that word has no meaning to her anymore. "Is Philosophy your field of study, Professor?" she teases, figuring that if he's going to flirt, she's got a green light to reciprocate.

"God, no." He shakes his head, reaching forward to take another sip of his drink. "Theoretical physics."

"Oh, right, because that's far less complicated." She watches him smile again, entertained by her comment.

"Sure," he surmises, shrugging. "Philosophy is rooted in nothing but conjecture; physics is rooted in numbers—it's factual, abstract, even, while contemplating ideas beyond what we already know. It's like… hearing the notes, without entirely understanding the sheet music before you."

"So, for example… like if the light that comes from stars in the sky actually come from dying stars millions of light years away." Barbie tries to remember what little she can from anything Physicist Barbie has said, but as a human, some of her knowledge is starting to fade. His analogy, though, carries such poetic beauty that she's finding her words a lot easier. "And the brighter the star, the more intense the death. You've never seen a dying star, but you know they're out there in the universe, living with the rest of us."

"More or less." But she watches Oppenheimer blink, notices the pause he takes before talking, not expecting her answer. Has she… impressed him? "But theory can only get you so far."

"True, without proof, it's just… an idea with merit." Right now Barbie's theorizing if they keep talking like this, the night is going to end on much more than a simple chat. But she likes that they're conversing about hypotheticals and basic physics. It's better than spending the whole night trying to find someone else's For You Page on Tik Tok amusing as they show her mundane video after mundane video.

"Where on Earth did you come from?" Oppenheimer is fully facing her now, inclining closer. Barbie tries to read those blue eyes that seem to already know the answer to his question, like he knows she's somehow not from his time.

"I told you," she replies lowly, nervously, "I'm from LA."

"Rhetorical question." He sighs, clicking his tongue. Now he only turns away to exhale smoke, but Barbie's sure he can feel her eyes on his lips when he does it, because she's not just thinking about them wrapped around a cigarette. "So few of us would be so bold as to wear pink from head to toe unless they know they can pull it off."

"What can I say? I know my color." Not that she chose this outfit, but if she feels this good, might as well embrace it.

"So, fashion expert, intuitive student, former actress, budding philosopher… is there anything you can't do?" Oppenheimer asks, amused.

She pauses, really trying to ponder the question. For years, Barbie knew she could do or be anything: physicist, writer, president, even. Barbies had few limitations, and even now, she recalls at least a bit of every occupation any Barbie has ever tried, at least in spirit. Her eyes shift back to her seltzer water, cupped tight between her palms. "I suppose I'm not very good at drinking."

At that, the band announces their return, starting up with something upbeat. Barbie finally turns her gaze from Oppenheimer and watches a few couples smile and get up, starting to occupy the dance floor. Barbie loves the way humans dance, imperfectly, but with the same joy she feels when she's choreographed with her friends. They bump into each other and hit steps offbeat, laugh the entire time as skirts twirl in muted colors. She thinks about dancing with him, those long fingers encircling her waist, her hands on his shoulders, foreheads pressed together. He's probably a terrible dancer, and she doesn't care.

There it is again, the dryness in her mouth, the flushing, the tight fluttering in her stomach and legs at these thoughts… Barbie downs the rest of her seltzer water. "I'll be right back. Just need to use the powder room." She hurries out of her seat toward the back of the club before she can gauge his reaction—no, she's not going to stand him up like that other woman did, she just… needs a minute.

Luckily no one else is in the washroom as Barbie clutches the edge of the sink, taking deep breaths. She stares at herself in the oval mirror: still impeccable, still not one flaw in her curls or her makeup. But inside she's tangled and messy and tense. She keeps picturing these scenarios, these things she imagines him doing to her, the things she imagines doing.

"Oh my God, I want to have sex with him," Barbie announces the realization lowly to her reflection.

It's not like she's never thought about it, or hasn't watched certain forms of media, or, well… satisfied her own needs herself. She's had plenty of honest, real conversations with Dr. Cohen about what's going on with her body now that she's a woman (33 to be exact), but she's never felt this lust so quickly, wanted so passionately. And, well, she's never had sex, not in the clinical, dictionary definition sense.

This is wrong, so wrong. She should just find an excuse to leave and get herself out before getting in too deep. Wrong place, definitely wrong time. This'll get her into that trouble Gymnast Barbie talked about, won't it?

Or… will it? If she just leaves the next morning (if he's feeling the same, but with the way they've been talking, that seems to be the direction the night is taking), he'll just know her name. Won't know exactly where she went. Maybe she can just go back to life and maybe then when she gets home she won't have so many hang ups about dating because there's no longer a fear about that great physical commitment. That's part of being human, right? Being messy like this. Complicated like this. To be free, to be a little selfish, to say "screw it" and live in the moment when the opportunity arises.

And here's something that just came to mind: Barbie doesn't have to tell anyone about this. It's a little secret she can keep away and relive in her head whenever she desires.

Besides, the confession has made her insides relax just a bit, and she's not as pale when she looks at herself. Sure, her heart sounds like it's still pounding in her ears, but now it's more out of excitement than anxiety. Barbie has one more affirmation before leaving, and luckily, there's still no one else in here.

"It is not promiscuous to sleep with someone on the first night."

A bit silly, yes, but she's starting to really understand all the paradoxes Gloria went on about when it comes to being a woman. A woman had to understand sex, but not have too much of it (or at all) to seem desirable. But maybe that's a stupid, modern notion.

Again, who is this man to know, or anyone else, for that matter?

Barbie sighs, then straightens up once she hears the door to the washroom opening. She turns the sink on, washing her hands as another woman steps inside.

Okay. She can do this.

Barbie saunters out of the washroom with a spring in her step as she floats back to the bar, stepping in time to the upbeat music. Her grin returns when she sees Oppenheimer still sitting at his stool, actually waiting. He's still taking long drags of his cigarette, looking aimlessly about the club with little focus.

"Sorry, I just needed to freshen up." She makes a point to brush her hand across his arm as she sits, now a gesture of interest.

"I flagged the bartender down and ordered you another seltzer water," he says, tapping the ashes onto the tray.

"Much appreciated, thank you." Barbie takes a few sips, closing her eyes as she takes in the carbonation. It's helping her nerves, at least a bit.

She takes in the music, the upbeat jazz. The plucking of bass strings, horns trumpeting, clarinets carrying dazzling melodies. She feels her toes tap absently, her legs growing restless from sitting here when she could be out there. She could be with the other couples, embracing the night.

So she gets up, but not without first trying to entice her potential partner. Her fingers wrap around his free hand, playfully tugging. "Come on, Oppie, let's dance!" she goads, flashing him what she hopes is her most brilliant smile.

He doesn't relent, simply chuckles lowly. "I think you'll find I'm much better suited back here than stumbling out there," he says stubbornly. "And let me guess: you're also a fantastic dancer."

"Maybe not 'fantastic,' but I know how to hold a rhythm." Barbie's hand holds a little tighter, and notices that even though he's tried to reject her, he's gripping to her, too. "You'd really let a lady dance alone?"

Not like that's ever stopped her before, but she doesn't want to cause too much trouble here.

"I'm sure some other lucky man would be more than happy to dance with you." And yet he's still holding her hand.

"I don't want to dance with them. I want to dance with you." If he's going to be stubborn, then so is she. Besides, he has his gaze locked on her, when before it had no direction. So she starts moving to the music, swaying her hips, waving her free arm. He waited for her, ordered her another drink, called her "stunning" and "beguiling." He's gotta be interested—so what's holding him back?

Oppenheimer watches her move, and that finally pushes him to douse his cigarette and finish his drink. He gets up with a heavy sigh like it's a burden, but there's still that hint of a smile in his face, that wide mouth still plucking up at the corners. "You're very difficult to say 'no' to."

"You'll have fun, Oppie," Barbie assures, giving his palm a squeeze as they join the other couples on the dance floor. Again, she feels other pairs of eyes on her, on this pink blur dancing around this awkward man who can barely tap his toes. As she thought, he's not great, but he tries with a soft sway in time to the music. Barbie allows herself to just take hold of that hand again, twirl around as she feels fit. She loves the feel of her skirt floating around her knees, the grin that's plastered to her face because she hasn't danced like this without a care in the world in so long.

And he lets her. Doesn't try to lead, doesn't try at all, to be honest. But it's enough, because with each spin and shimmy, she can feel those blue eyes on nothing else but her. He loosens up, taking her hand and she's not too sure what to do with it—accidentally running into him when she twirls into his body. But she laughs, and he chuckles, and they're imperfect and everything she wants. This is still more exhilarating than a choreographed dance with the other Barbies and Kens, because it's laced in thrill of something romantic and unpredictable.

At the end of the song, he even has the courage to give her a halfhearted dip, and Barbie sighs into it, locking her eyes with his. He's so close; if she leans up even just a few inches…

The band goes into a slower song next, and Barbie's heart races as Oppenheimer pulls her upright, those fingers encircling her waist list like—no, better than she imagined. She takes in his scent, like faint cigarettes and chalk as she places her left hand delicately on his shoulder. His left hand still tangles in her right, pressed between their chests so she can feel his sturdiness, his steady breathing. There's no one person leading the other; they're simply circling slowly to the music, engrossed only in each other.

"I told you—fun, right?" she murmurs, unable to stop smiling.

"A bit of an odd definition, but it's not my worst experience dancing," he admits, and is it just her, or are his fingers closing in around her waist tighter?

"That's 'cause you barely danced at all."

"What would you call this, then?"

"Mm…" Barbie hums, trying to find the right words. "Flirting in motion?"

"I can accept that." He nods slowly. "Though out of all the patrons in this club, you chose to sit with the lonely physicist."

"I did."

"Why?"

She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, those sunken blue eyes await her answer. "I could find a million men in LA who all look the same, cookie cutter pretty. They talk big like they own the whole city." Is this even going to make sense to him? "But no one I know looks like you, or speaks like you. 'Pretty' is overrated. I'll forget someone who's 'pretty' in a second. But you…" She dares to move her hand on his shoulder up to his neck. "I'm not going to forget Robert Oppenheimer anytime soon."

"'Pretty' can be overrated if it isn't worn well," he counters, tilting his head to lean into her hand. "You wear it exceptionally well. You're an Alphonse Mucha nymph come to life."

The reference doesn't go unnoticed. Barbie has to smile at that; he finds her as enthralling as a literal work of art, free and flowing. If that's not a sign to seal the deal, then what is?

"May I kiss you?"

He chuckles at the question, and yeah, maybe it's a little too modern for these older sensibilities. She doesn't care. "You really need to ask my permission?"

Barbie shrugs, completely earnest. "Consent is really important to me."

Oppenheimer stops laughing, but he's still wearing a smile. "Then yes, Barbie, you may kiss me."

She surges to him before he's even done agreeing, finally pressing those lips she's been fantasizing about against hers. Not her first kiss, of course, but she puts passion in it, and he's right there, squeezing her hand and waist, so sturdy and sure. It's to see if she really wants to kiss him all night, and yeah—she really does. She's even smiling into it, because when he kisses back, it's everything she wants.

They've stopped dancing after the kiss, and honestly, Barbie can barely hear the music anymore. All the patrons have melted away, as have the lights, the tables, the bar… It's just the two of them, existing quietly in their own world.

"You said you were staying at The Palace," she mentions, going in for the real proposal.

"For the evening, yes," he replies, and is he a little breathless?

Barbie bites her lip, leaning into him. "Maybe… you can take me up there and we can talk some more."

He pauses, contemplating. Barbie watches him swallow thickly. "If I take you to The Palace, we're going to be doing a lot more than talking, you realize." And that's him asking for her initial consent, because to say it explicitly is too taboo for anyone else in this club to hear.

"I know," she says, and now her hand's moving from his neck to his jaw. His skin is clean, but dry, probably from all the smoking. "But a change of scenery and some privacy would be really nice."

After nodding, Oppenheimer steps back, but it's to start leading Barbie off the dance floor and outside. Their hands are still locked, exiting quickly, as wandering eyes that follow them ask how the woman clad in pink left The Dawn Club with the too-thin professor.

That was the closest I could get to writing, "Come on, Oppie, let's go party."

Written to The Loneliest Time and The Loveliest Time by Carly Rae Jepsen.

I'll be seeing Oppenheimer again this week (IMAX 70MM!), and that'll definitely help the creativity flowing!

I also remember when I outlined this thinking it was going to be a oneshot. Boy howdy, did I forget how carried away I can get when I just start writing. It's obv only going to get crazier from here.

As always, reviews and favorites are greatly appreciated!