A/N: I'm not particularly proud of this one, I'll admit it. I liked the idea, but it didn't turn out quite the way I wanted it to. There will probably be another Jurassic World fic from me sometime in the future- originally, I was gonna just write this one and call it quits, but like I said, I was sort of disappointed with this one so I think I'll try my hand at it again and try to improve. (I don't own JW, enjoy)

It was true that Claire Dearing had always been at least a little attracted to Owen Grady- as said attraction had been mutual, it had led their first date. Of course, had you asked her three months ago, she would have stiffly replied that the date had been a "mistake fueled by an immature and unreasonable weakness". (Owen would've said he thought she was hot.)

But then again, Claire Dearing was not that same person she'd been three months ago. She'd learned to appreciate Owen's unique qualities (abet the hard way). It just took her a little while to do it.

-Month One-

When it was Claire's turn in the bathroom, she was disgusted to see Owen had left the toothpaste cap open and his towel strewn over the side of the sink.

"Grady," she grumbled, tidying the mess quickly and making a mental note to get on to him later. The last week had been more or less like that- Claire cleaning, and Owen giving her reason to. She would've gotten her own hotel room days ago, but she knew Owen would never be able to afford the pricy room on the savings he could access presently, despite his pride preventing him from admitting it.

Claire also knew that the area had few cheaper hotels, and all were likely to be full. In addition, letting him go to a cheaper hotel meant less privacy, and thus put him at the press's mercy. She was pretty sure he'd rather face another dinosaur than end up on TV answering questions. (Besides, how could she put him through that after they'd fought for their lives together? Claire was practical, not heartless.)

So, she'd sucked it up and bunked with Owen- not that that stopped her from reprimanding him, of course. Turning on the shower, the former Jurassic World employee slipped under the hot water, letting it cascade over her and wash the day down the drain.

She was glad to see it go. Her day- like many over the past week- had been long and stressful. Not, ironically enough, from the press, but from the questions her own mind assaulted her with. She was certainly facing unemployment (who would ever employ someone responsible for the Jurassic World disaster?), and that was the kindest and lightest of her worries. So many people had died. There were so many families to see, so many angry demands and tears to deal with. And each one would just summon the memory of the victim, running but not fast enough, and it was all her fault, oh God-

Her knees shook, so she sank to the shower floor, a sob crawling its way free and echoing around the tile. Her fault, her fault, her fault-

"Claire? Claire!"

She'd woken up Owen. She stared at the bathroom door through the shower's glass door, as if not comprehending the frantic knocking.

"Claire, remember what I said? Just breath, I promise it's gonna be okay-"

Just breathe. Had he said that before?

"When you have a panic attack, it's important to focus on your breathing. It sounds easy, but it's gonna be hard as hell later. Every time you exhale, try to relax a muscle until you aren't tensed up anymore. I promise, it helps."

Yes, he had said that.

Inhale- she focused on the water pooling around her feet and spiraling down the drain. Exhale- she forced herself to relax her legs, spreading them out before her. She felt exposed this way, and panic bubbled up from her core.

Inhale- the feeling wavered slightly. Exhale- she relaxed her arms. Was this really supposed to help? She felt vulnerable, like she should run. At her sides, her hands shook.

Inhale- at the door, Owen was still talking, trying to walk her through the motions. ("Stomach next, just relax-") Exhale- she leaned back against the wall, like she could melt into the tile and vanish forever.

Inhale- she tried to hear only Owen's voice and the patter of water. Exhale- for the first time, the desperation seemed to slink back.

Inhale- she was okay. Exhale- the tension faded. Exhaustion replaced it, and suddenly Claire realized she was freezing. The shower had run out of hot water. Standing, she shut off the water and wrapped herself in the robe hanging on the wall. Her hands were unsteady when she tied the knot around her waist.

Claire unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the cool room, letting out one more shaky breath. Owen was there the moment she emerged, holding her close to him and murmuring encouragement. If she could cry again she would, but she found she was too tired to do even that. Her eyes stung from tears and shower water and probably a little soap, but she didn't bother to flush them out.

Instead she followed Owen to the oversized armchair that furnished the room and sank gratefully into the cushion, curling up next to him and letting him put on some mindless movie. She knew he'd pretend to watch it and spare her slowly returning pride while she lay still and let his steady heartbeat lull her to sleep.

Sometimes, she thought that small weak part of her that first fell for the raptor trainer had selfish reasons for keeping him around now. Other times, she knew it did. Sure, the hotel and press were good excuses, but perhaps that small part of her relied on him because the rest of her couldn't be alone, even if he was a mess. Speaking of which-

"You left your towel in the sink," Claire mumbled, words slurred with sleep. The warm rumble of Owen's laugh was the only answer she heard- she drifted off soon after.

-Month 2-

Later, Claire would think she should've noticed Owen's own panic attacks earlier. Or, more accurately, the lack of them. He'd been through a traumatic experience himself, and yet two months after the incident she'd had yet to see him break down.

She knew he was strong, and as an ex-member of the Navy, she knew he probably had experience overcoming traumatic memories. It had never occurred to her that his talent was not at fixing the issue, but hiding it. Worse yet, he was good at it. Scarily good.

Despite his worrying talent, even he had a breaking point. It was during the second month, seven long weeks after leaving the island, that he finally reached that point.

"Ms. Dearing, what was the estimated death toll?" Claire didn't see which reporter had asked the question- the sea of faces was obscured by the bright, frequent flashes of the cameras they held.

"Twenty-two known deaths," Claire replied tightly. "The estimate is still in flux, though, so that will not be the final number." She didn't bother to mention that she'd witnessed most of those deaths, if not personally, then from behind a screen.

"And the injuries?" Asked another. Claire balked at the question- the number was unimpressively high. Saying 'a lot', however, was not an option.

"We're still waiting on Red Cross's final reports," she finally answered vaguely. A tiny white lie wouldn't kill her, after all. The reporters, thankfully, had too many questions to ask to probe further into a number they could get elsewhere.

"And Mr. Grady? It was your dinosaurs that helped face the I-Rex, correct?" Briefly the attention turned to Owen, who sat on her left.

Claire thought it was unfair he'd been dragged into the press conference. He may have been an employee, but he hadn't helped run the park the way Claire had. The other trainers hadn't been asked to attend; in fairness, he shouldn't have had to either. However, security footage and pictures taken from surviving cameras had somehow leaked to the public, and he'd been in far too many of them to be dismissed.

Looking at him now, Claire could tell he was way out of his comfort zone. His hands gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly it turned his knuckles white, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. She doubted the audience could tell, but then again, they'd never seen Owen at ease.

"Yes," he said curtly. His eyes scanned the room, but Claire thought it was more like he was counting exits than trying to find the reporter who was talking.

"Could you please re-account your version of events?" At that, Claire's eyes snapped back to the audience. That was cruel. They'd already gotten official accounts of what happened. Making Owen retell it was unnecessary, and it made her blood boil.

"What?" Owen asked bluntly, and Claire could tell he'd reached the same conclusion. "You already know the story."

"We'd like to hear it from someone who wasn't in management," they persisted. Owen frowned.

"We were all in the same place," he said flatly. "My story is the same as theirs." Claire gave a small sigh of relief. He could handle this.

"What about the raptors? Is it true some were killed defending people?" Claire finally located the reporter talking; he was short, portly, and was wearing a wide hat that shadowed his small eyes. Claire thought he looked rather like a rat.

"Yes," Owen said again. "They were." His eyes dipped to the long table placed between the employees and reporters and stayed there.

"What are your thoughts on using raptors in the military?" The troublemaker carried on. "Do you see it as a likely outcome?"

Owen opened his mouth to answer, looking furious, but was interrupted by another reporter.

"What about your experiences in the Navy, Mr. Grady? Did they contribute to your survival on the island?"

"Did you know the dinosaur enclosures were unstable?"

"Why were you able to work with the raptors and not the Indominus Rex?"

"Did the Indominus Rex have a handler?"

The fury in Owen's eyes faded, to be replaced by an overwhelmed sort of panic. He looked like a caged animal.

"How did you end up working with Ms. Dearing? If you were indeed picked for your prior experience in the Navy, why did everyone else not?"

"Why did the company not learn from Jurassic Park?"

"How could the company put so many lives at risk?"

The questions had turned into accusations, and it made Claire feel sick. They hadn't been as blunt with the managers as their status offered them some small protection, and Owen's position made him vulnerable. They weren't even his accusations to answer- he was the most innocent of anyone at the table.

"Is it true you were present when the first man was killed?"

Owen seemed to shrink back in his chair. The raw terror in his eyes was both new and familiar to Claire, and she knew he was being forced to relive the memories the questions surfaced, with no privacy to regain his footing. She'd never seen him so unsettled before, and the sight snapped her thin patience once and for all.

"Enough!" She snapped, standing up. "You accuse us of not learning from Jurassic Park, and yet you want to put the same creatures responsible for the incidents in the military. Owen- I mean, Mr. Grady's actions saved lives on that island, and that's all you need to know. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself from your company," she finished, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice.

The reporters simply stared as she turned on her heel and left. One by one, the others at the table followed her out; a small act of defiance, but one that made her point very clear: your accusations will not force us to compromise what we've been through and our story will not be changing to appease you.

The families that had suffered losses were the only ones, Claire felt, who deserved full explanations and apologies. That did not include noisy reporters whose only end to meet was curiosity.

She intended to make sure Owen knew he didn't owe them anything. Admittedly, after her exit it took her a few moments to find him. She finally did, on the roof of the building. He was by the railing, leaning on his elbows with his hands tightly clasped together.

She walked over slowly and mimicked his position next to him. The wind whipped her short hair around, but she ignored it.

"You didn't have to do that," Owen said, staring at his hands.

"They didn't have the right to ask so much of you," Claire retorted, studying her companion out of the corner of her eye. He acted fine, but he was too pale, and he wouldn't look her in the eye. He clasped his hands together, she realized, to stop them from shaking. The thought made her heart ache.

"They're the press, Claire," Owen replied, swallowing thickly. "They don't exactly follow the rules."

"Well, they should," she replied defensively. "What they just did? That wasn't okay."

"People are mad. They want answers."

"I promise you Owen, the people who were actually impacted at the park don't care who died first or about your time in the Navy," Claire swore, turning to face him fully. He reluctantly turned his head to meet her eyes. For a moment he was silent. Then:

"I thought the Navy prepared me for just about anything," he said finally. "But I was never expected to answer for war casualties. That's not- I can't-" He broke off and took a long, unsteady breath before continuing- "I've never gone through anything like that in my life." His voice broke and he trailed off, returning his gaze to his hands. "I've never felt so small."

Claire leaned over and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her forehead against his back. His heartbeat, normally so steady, was uneven and rapid.

"I know," she said softly. They stood that way for a long time- at some point, Owen turned and pulled Claire to his chest, but neither left the roof. It was dark before they went back to the hotel. It was even later before Owen seemed back to normal and his hands had stopped shaking.

Claire felt she had learned something new about Owen Grady; perhaps, despite how they argued, they were more alike in their grief than she'd thought.

-Month 3-

Claire had thought she'd never be able to return to the island. However, she found that by the time the initial wave of reporters had hit, stepping off of the helicopter onto the broken asphalt was a relief.

In an odd way, watching as the damage was repaired gave her a sense of closure- the fact she was there to manage said repairs helped. Owen had accompanied her as well, but for a different reason. Officially, he was there to help account for the surviving dinosaurs. Unofficially… well, if Claire was there and his remaining raptors might show up, it was a given that he couldn't stay away.

Claire was glad he'd come. It was odd, but she found they might just recover on the island that broke them.

"Any sign of them?" Claire asked, dropping her purse down on the coffee table by the front door. For the time being, both were staying at Owen's old home. It was a little cramped, but since both were off at work most of the time and it offered them the privacy they needed, neither minded. (Well, for the most part. Claire still had some qualms with Owen's housekeeping, but that was beside the point.)

"Yup," Owen answered, joy palpable in his voice. The redhead followed the sound of his voice to the kitchen, where Owen was proving just how many frozen pizzas one man could eat. "They think we might have a lead on Blue's trail. We're going out first thing tomorrow to see where it takes us."

The ex-raptor trainer was lounged at the table, grinning at Claire like a maniac. At one point, she might have made a snide comment about his attachment to the dinosaurs ("I suppose it should be expected as you're practically an animal yourself"), but she'd learned a lot since then.

"Congratulations," Claire said instead, letting a genuine smile grace her face. "I think she's ready for her Alpha to bring her home."

"I hope so," Owen commented around another bite of pizza. "If not, I guess we'll just start from step one again. Rebuild that trust." Claire didn't ask how he planned to do that; if Owen said he could, he could. Taking a seat next to him, she snagged a slice of pizza and kicked her (heel-less) shoes off.

"Hey," he complained. "Get your own." He efficiently ruined whatever affect the words might have by slinging one arm around her shoulders fondly.

They sat for a moment in silence, before Owen got uncharacteristically serious.

"I heard you get up last night," he said, and Claire could tell he was watching her carefully even though she didn't turn to look at him. "You told me your nightmares had stopped."

Claire winced at the thinly veiled accusation, but didn't deny it. Instead, she said:

"Frankly, it's none of your business." It was a feeble retort, and Owen clearly thought so.

"I thought we were past all that," he replied, retracting his arm and turning in his seat to face her. Claire deflated, and for a moment didn't answer. Then:

"When you have nightmares you talk in your sleep," she mumbled, staring at the kitchen table like it had the answers to life itself. By her side, Owen swallowed thickly and stayed silent. "I don't want you to worry about me more than you already do."

Those were the worst nights. Claire's own nightmares were bad enough, but to wake up and see Owen, sweating and mouthing her name, terror across his face- she hated that more than anything. It was weird to care about his wellbeing enough to sacrifice some of her own, but she knew that he cared the same way. She tried not to think about it; if she did, she might have to put a name to their relationship, and neither of them had attempted to tackle that challenge yet.

"Claire," Owen said finally. His voice sounded odd. "I'm not going to stop worrying. But I'll worry less if I know you're being honest."

"Right," Claire said skeptically.

"I will," Owen insisted. "Besides, I would rather a human Claire capable of recovery than machine Claire who doesn't feel. Remember?"

"I remember," she said softly. The week before, Claire had discovered that if she returned to her number-on-a-spreadsheet mentality, everything hurt less. The pain faded to an ignorable ache. For a few days, she'd been removed. Prone to angry outburst and very defensive, yes, but also mechanic and practical to the point of being near Old Claire.

When Owen figured out what she was doing, he'd been furious. ("This is your solution? This? Making those deaths insignificant? I thought you were better than that!") It had snapped Claire back to reality, and she'd promised to try to heal instead of becoming numb. Some days were harder than others, but Owen was right- it was better to feel pain than nothing at all.

"Then you have to work with me," Owen carried on, bringing Claire back to the present. "Okay?"

"Right," Claire nodded, this time sincerely. "I just don't like…" she trailed off. What could she say? She didn't like causing him pain, making him upset? It was far too late for either.

"You've got to stop blaming yourself," Owen said softly. "It's like the panic attacks; difficult, but achievable. And over time, it'll fade. It won't go away, but it'll get better."

Claire hummed in agreement, before standing to throw away the uneaten (now cold) pizza. Sometimes, Owen was just as much a realist as she was. She appreciated it. It had kept her grounded over the last few months.

Actually, many things about him had kept her grounded. He could be serious, but also fun. Sometimes, he made her forget that everything ever went wrong (not that she'd ever admit it). He'd been there for her, even when she'd made it difficult (she liked to think that maybe she'd been able to be there for him, too, even if in truth she doubted it.) His annoying habits hadn't changed, but her opinions had. She didn't need the pretense of a hotel to stick around.

The whole thing seemed backwards and ironic. Here she was, Claire Dearing, a successful business woman who had all the answers, trying to find the answers on the island that took them from her with the man who was in many ways her polar opposite. And weirder yet, she was there by choice. Yes, she'd changed a good deal.

"You okay?"

"What?" Claire asked, torn from her musings by Owen's concern.

"You just gave me a funny look," he clarified. "Like I'd grown a third eye or something."

"No, not yet," Claire snorted, collecting the dishes as she talked. "I was just thinking-"

"Oh, careful."

"-that I never would have imagined myself here a year ago."

"What do you mean?" Owen asked, taking the dishes from her hands and walking over to the sink with them.

"I mean I never would've thought that anything could drive me to live here willingly in your little 'bungalow'," she said, mimicking his voice on the word 'bungalow'.

"What?" He whined. "It is a bungalow!"

"It's a small house."

"Woman, what do you think a bungalow is, a boat?" Owen complained. Claire just rolled her eyes, a small snort of laughter escaping her.

"You're hopeless," she informed him, moving to stand next to him by the sink. Owen dropped the dishes in said sink with a clatter and turned the water on. As he added some soap to the mix, Claire moved and grabbed a hand towel and the dish rack.

"Yeah, but you are, too," her companion grumbled. Claire just watched him silently, a small smile on her face. Yes, it was true she'd never have picked this life for herself before. But in moments like this, she sometimes thought there might be a future for her and Owen together after all.

"You're doing it again," Owen accused, shooting her a look before turning his attention back to the tomato sauce on the side on the pizza pan. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Make it a dollar and it's a deal," she retorted haughtily.

"Oh, tough bargain," Owen whistled. "I dunno if my paycheck can afford that, Miss Princess."

"Then I guess I can't tell you what I was thinking," Claire shrugged, taking the first plate from him and drying it off.

"Okay, fine! Dollar for your thoughts?" Owen surrendered.

"Well, now I can't remember what I was thinking."

"Cla-ire," he whined, dropping his plate back into the sudsy water and turning to face her. "C'mon."

"Alright," Claire sighed with mock trepidation. "I was just thinking there are some things it might be about time I told you."

"Such as?" Owen asked. His tone was playful, but his eyes were trained on hers intently. Claire realized for the first time that maybe he'd been waiting for her to address their confusing relationship first.

"First of all, you have pizza sauce on your nose," Claire informed him matter-of-factly.

"Savin' it for later," Owen dismissed, grinning when Claire wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Second?"

"Second of all, I think I owe you a thank you," Claire continued, more softly this time. Owen stilled, looking surprised. Whatever he'd been expecting, this clearly wasn't it.

"Thank you for what?" He asked finally, his surprise melting into confusion.

"For everything," Claire shrugged, trying and failing to act nonchalant. "For helping me even though you didn't have to. I-uh, I don't think I would… I wouldn't have recovered the same way," she admitted finally. "If I did at all. You've been patient and helped me put myself back together, and I don't think I've ever properly thanked you. So, um, thank you," she finished, somewhat awkwardly.

Owen looked stunned. "You're thanking me?" He echoed, blinking at Claire owlishly. "Hell, Claire, I'm pretty sure you've helped me more than I've helped you."

"That's not true-" Claire tried to protest, but Owen was having none of it.

"Yes, it is," he insisted. He suddenly seemed frustrated, like Claire was missing a huge point. "I thought you knew that."

"Knew what?" Claire asked, feeling very much like perhaps she was missing a huge point.

"Okay, then," Owen took a deep breath and met Claire's confused gaze evenly. "You said I helped you recover, but you're Claire Dearing. I've never known anything to get in your way. The I-Rex tried and you chased down a T-Rex in high heels to show it who was boss!" Claire shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, but Owen wasn't done.

"I have a feeling you would've been okay. Maybe not perfect, but you'd move on," his eyes softened. "I'm only okay because you needed me to be."

"You don't need me," Claire shook her head. "You don't need anybody."

"Not true," Owen corrected. "Everybody needs someone. I just never had anybody." For the first time, he faltered, swallowing thickly. His next words seemed to stick in his throat, but Owen Grady was nothing if not determined.

"You make me want to be better. You make me want to deserve you," he said finally. "Some days, I think maybe I'll get there. Other days, I know I never will."

"I'm not a saint, Owen," Claire said, meeting his gaze and trying to ignore the way her heart stuttered at his confession.

"Neither am I."

"Yeah, what saint drinks Tequila?" Claire teased weakly. Owen rolled his eyes, but a small smile worked its way onto his face. Claire decided suddenly that she liked the way Owen looked at her- she'd never been able to place a name to the emotion in his eyes before, but she thought that maybe now she could. Maybe now she felt it, too.

"I think," Claire started slowly, "that I've always judged you a little too harshly." Owen laughed, but didn't interrupt. "Maybe we could give that second date a try?"

There. She'd asked. They were finally going to figure out where they stood.

Owen's eyes lit up. "Claire Dearing," he replied, taking on her professional tone, "I think I would like that very much."

"Good," she breathed, and then professionalism was out the window and his lips were on hers and they were both smeared in suds and pizza sauce and why had they waited three months for this?

She never would have thought that in recovery, they could fix their relationship.

Claire Dearing had never been so glad to be wrong.