The rain's pounding on Claire's umbrella, and she can feel droplets of water hitting her ankles and dripping down into her shoes as she runs through the the outdoor parking lot. Her bag's slipping down her shoulder, and she's struggling to keep a grip on her phone without losing the umbrella to a gust of wind.
"Where are you parked? I can't see you." She squints through the rain and scans the rows of cars that aren't much more than dark shadows against even darker asphalt.
"I'm like... ten cars in front of you seriously." The voice at the other end of the line is exasperated.
"I can't see you, are you behind that jacked up SUV?" She keeps walking, tilting the umbrella against the prevailing wind. She steps carefully to stop her feet slipping in her shoes.
"No, the row on the other side." Claire finally sees the gray Jaguar, and makes a beeline, stopping for a moment to toss the umbrella into the trunk. He's already pushed open the passenger door and she ducks in, slamming it shut behind her and brushing drops of rain off her suit. "Hi," he says, and hands her a microfiber towel he's pulled from the center console."
She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and begins rubbing the rain off her ankles. "Hi." She pulls a shoe off and pats down the inside. "Thanks for the ride."
"It's fine." He smiles at her, and swipes at a drop of water on her shoulder.
"Sorry I woke you up." She's put the towel on the floor now, and is digging her toes into it.
"You didn't, I was playing Inquisition."
"You sounded sleepy."
"I was in a boring bit." He checks the rearview mirror, and puts the car in reverse.
"I thought you said there were no boring bits." She glances over at him, his profile is barely visible against the dark sky, but a nearby streetlight casts a weak glow against his hair. She feels a flutter in her stomach, and digs her toes harder into the towel.
"There are... a few boring bits which I cannot recall right at this point in time due to them being boring."
He's pulling out of the parking space, and she squints through the downpour. The wipers are flapping against the windscreen, and the lights and trees of Portland are blurry and difficult to make out in the gloom.
"So how come you were so late anyway?" The windscreen is steaming up, and he pushes a couple of buttons on the steering wheel until a patch of clear glass starts appearing.
"The contract renegotiation hit a speedbump."
"Should I ask?"
"You can, but you know the story about military contracts."
Owen cracks a smile as he pulls up to a red light. "Man, it was so much easier when we both worked for the same evil corporation."
Claire takes a swipe at the side window to clear some of the moisture. "Gosh all those conversations about raptors and fifty foot tyrannosaur hybrids over ice cream and Chardonnay. I sure do miss them."
Owen winces. The light turns green, and he steps on the accelerator hard. The car takes off with a jerk, and Claire grips her seat. "You going to at least get the weekend off?"
"I would say probability around three percent."
"Sexist old dudes?"
Claire makes a face and nods. "Mmm."
Owen stays silent for the rest of the drive, and Claire stares out the window, tracing patterns in the mist in an effort to stay awake. When they pull into the garage of Owen's house, it's close to two, and he prods her in the shoulder after he turns off the engine.
"I'm awake." She unclips her seat belt, opens the door, and picks her shoes up from the footwell. She has to dodge around her own car on the way to the door, and she makes a grumbling noise when she bumps into the fender. "I swear I am never taking TriMet to work ever again."
"You say that at least three times a month." He's right behind her now, hands on her hips and guiding her to the door that leads to the kitchen of the bungalow. She leans into him a little, and lets his chin rest on the top of her head for a moment.
"Yeah, well this time I'm for real."
She pulls away from him once they're in the house, and heads straight for the pantry. "You want some?" There's a bottle of Syrah in her hand, and she's reaching for a single glass. It's a polite gesture, he's more of a beer drinker.
"Fuck it, why not."
She looks at him, eyes sharp and assessing. "What, you out of beer or something?" She opens the refrigerator door. There's still two thirds of a six pack on the top shelf. When she turns around, he's scratching at his head, looking a little sheepish. "They called, didn't they?"
He raises his eyebrows and gives her a knowing look.
"You tell them where to go?"
"They're claiming I'm in breach of contract, and if I don't do it then they'll sue me."
Claire turns back to the counter, fills the glasses almost to the brim, and tosses the already empty bottle in the recycling. "And if you do do it, then you'll be dead."
Owen grins and looks at the floor. "Gosh golly gee, Miss Dearing, you sure do know how to break the bad news."
She hands him the glass, and he thanks her. They stand in silence for a while, Claire sorting through the mail on the kitchen island, Owen fiddling with the fridge magnets. She's not really paying attention to the various junk and the bills she's already requested come by email only. She's looking at Owen's broad shoulders and at the curve of his back, hunched in resignation.
"Have you changed your mind? Do you want to go?"
"Not if it's just to secure Masrani's investment." Claire steps toward him and puts her hand on his shoulder. He turns to her and grins. "Hey, at least I might get to see Blue one last time before she eats my face off."
Claire claps him around the head, and walks towards the living room. "We've had a year to prepare for this." She sets the glass on the credenza that separates the living space and the kitchen, and reaches into the cabinet. She pulls out a massive binder and sets it next to the wine. "We're ready."
He nods. "We're ready."
…
He sleeps with his bedroom door open, and he can hear her breathing and tossing in her sleep from the room down the hall. Deep, slow breaths. The occasional muttering or single word outburst. Sometimes he knows she's dreaming about the island, and he shuffles down the hall and lays next to her and holds her hand until she calms down. He knows she does the same thing for him when he's fighting and shouting out for the raptors.
Tonight she's just breathing. There's the occasional rustle of sheets, but she's been up for over twenty hours and the exhaustion hit her hard after they finished their drinks and watched five minutes of a twenty-four hour news channel. They brushed their teeth next to each other in the main bathroom, and he stopped himself from giving her a sleepy kiss when left her to remove her makeup in peace. Now all he can think about is curling up next to her on top of the blankets, tucking her head into his chin, and rubbing her back until she stops shouting out for Gray and Zach.
He knows he's turned into a desperate sap. He's not that embarrassed about it either. Maybe a little sheepish that he's turned into a mushy sentimental cheeseball over a woman who isn't even interested in him romantically.
Okay, so maybe he's not particularly sentimental or mushy, just occasionally in need of physical comfort that isn't sticking his dick in a hot woman's vagina.
Now that he thinks about it, it's been a long time since he's done that. Like... before the incident long time.
He swears, and rolls over onto his stomach. Then to his side, and finally out of bed entirely and to the bathroom to beat one out in the shower.
He's absolutely not thinking about Claire when he comes.
...
Claire sleeps until Midday, undisturbed by both work, and Owen rattling around the house. She grabs blindly at her nightstand, hand eventually connecting with the cellphone. Zero missed calls. She sighs and smiles, and snuggles down into the sheets for five more minutes.
She can hear Owen whistling in the kitchen, the crackle and smell of bacon making it through her half open door. There are plates clattering, and the sink's running, and she knows that he's got an assembly line going that is almost military in its precision.
Her hand is drifting towards the waist of her pajamas, and she plays with the skin of her hip, fingers brushing a scar from a piece of glass catching her when Blue smashed through the front window of the van. Her fingers travel lower until they're teasing around her clit. She arches her back, and snuggles the side of her face into the cool cotton of her pillow, imagining Owen's perfect thighs and muscular back leaning over the oven. She thinks back to Costa Rica, after the incident, but before he asked her to come back to Portland with him.
She remembers getting drunk on the beach and running her hands over those muscles before both of them came to their senses, scrambled up off the sand, and left for their respective rooms to sleep it off. She thinks about kissing him in a way far less chaste than after shooting the pteranodon, she thinks about running her tongue up his thick, strong neck, until her lips meet his.
She stiffens when she hears his whistle travel up the corridor, and snatches her hand out of her pants. There's a gentle knock at the door.
"Claire?"
She shifts, pretending she's just woken. "Mmm?"
"I made waffles."
"Okay, I'll get up in a minute."
He walks off back to the kitchen, and she sighs heavily and kicks off the duvet. She doesn't bother to put on a bra or panties, instead deciding on afuck it I'm horny and don't care about the consequences approach, but then thinks better of it when she realizes her tank top is white and very obviously transparent, and it's really not a good idea to try heading in that direction with Owen because of a very large list of arbitrary reasons that is steadily growing in her brain's Owen File. After a moments rummaging around in a drawer, she finds a black tank to layer over the top and follows the enticing smell of bacon into the kitchen.
His back is to her when she enters, but somehow he knows anyway. She hates that about him. "You sleep okay?" he asks, and she grunts in response.
The counter is completely clear and spotless, and he's wiping at the stainless steel of the cooktop with a cloth.
"I wasn't sure how long you were going to be, so food's in the oven ready when you are. You need more time to wake up?"
"I'm okay." She gets a mug out of a cabinet and fills it up from the french press on the table. "Coffee, thanks."
He takes the plates out of the oven and puts them on the table. "You wanna eat in here or in there?" He points to the living room.
She sits down. "Here."
"Okay." He sits opposite her and pours himself a drink of orange juice.
They eat in silence for a few minutes, and Claire deliberately overchews to avoid conversation. The folder from the night before is at the end of the table, and she can see the neatly printed label on the side that reads InGen/Masrani Global Contract Dispute – Owen Grady.
"You're not really going to go, are you?" She swallows the mouthful of waffles and takes a sip of coffee. "You know the contract is bullshit, right? We've been over this."
"Stop freaking out, I'm not going."
"I'm not freaking out." She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest.
"You are totally freaking out." He downs his orange juice and pushes a piece of his breakfast around his plate, soaking up maple syrup in a huge chunk of waffle. He shoves the entire forkful into his mouth and doesn't bother swallowing before continuing, "You're freaking out because you don't want to go and face those assholes any more than I do."
"Hey, I left that position voluntarily, don't pull that shit on-"
"Jesus, Claire. I'm not pulling any shit on you. I'm just saying neither of us really need even more reminders of what happened down there. You're still having nightmares, I try to punch Hoskins in my sleep... all I'm saying is it's not healthy, okay?"
"Okay," she mumbles. She grabs a crispy piece of bacon in her fingers and bites half it off.
"I can hire a lawyer, you know."
She glares at him, and drops the other half of the bacon. "You are not hiring a lawyer."
