A little something I wrote up in 2015 after seeing Jurassic World twelve times. Everyone fleshed out the infamous date between Claire and Owen, but I wanted to know how it even came to be. Found this forgotten on an old flash drive! Enjoy!

May 2014

"In the two years I've been with IBRIS, we've made phenomenal headway with this particular group of raptors. My status as their alpha has been established but challenged. They may still be juveniles, but that does not mean they will push boundaries any less with maturity. And while such research exists of other pack hunters, there are still unique attributes to discover about the social behaviors of velociraptors as we interact and grow with them. Their motivations have been and continue to be the focus of our research."

Owen looked to Barry. His partner nodded, addressing the group before them.

"We are fascinated by what we observe and experience every day, in our labs and in the field. We thank each of you for your continued interest in our work, and we look forward to sharing our forthcoming findings with you next year."

The modest collection of investors and donors concentrated around them applauded with polite enthusiasm. Beyond the relatively small circle of their presentation, the Hilton ballroom glowed in grandeur with another hundred or so crisp suits and sparkling gowns – annual attendees of a private gala held in their honor, a perfect, thin flute of champagne in each one's hand. With an array of presentations being held that evening to exhibit what advances in research and technology were being made with their contributions, the main floor of the ballroom and its balcony hummed with comfortable discussions and debates. Masrani had built it into an exclusive spectacular not unlike the park itself, and the list of paleontologists, geneticists, engineers, anthropologists, and investors grew each year.

Straightening his tuxedo jacket, Owen stepped down from the small platform he shared with Barry, shaking hands and thanking listeners with a winning smile. From the back of the dispersing band of onlookers, Sarah Harding gave him a nod of approval, a wink, and flashed a quick thumbs up, ultimately deciding to make her way forward before moving on to the next presentation. Owen raised his eyebrows in earnest; having Dr. Harding listen to his research for twenty minutes was compliment enough, but having the chance to speak with her, however briefly, was something in and of itself.

That, and he barely recognized her in mulberry velvet and a French twist.

"Excellent presentation, Owen," she said, finding his hand with a firm grasp. Owen smiled graciously, shaking her hand.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Harding. It is a privilege to finally meet you in person."

She rolled her eyes at herself. "I know, I'm terrible about keeping dates. But third time's a charm," she said, pointing at him. "I have the whole last week of July set aside to confer with you on psychological territory and social pathologies, and I will be here this time, I promise."

Owen laughed. The seven short months he had been in correspondence with her, Owen was grateful for the invaluable handful of emails and video conferences he'd had with her. And while a death in the family and impending hurricane had been plenty of reason to reschedule their previously planned rendezvous, Owen would be lying to himself to say he wasn't thrilled to finally have her collaborating with him for a week.

"Whenever you can get here, I'll be ready."

"My chopper lands July 26th at nine A.M."

"I will meet you at the tarmac."

"Perfect."

Exchanging quick kisses on the cheek, Owen bid her a goodnight and watched Sarah sweep back into the current of the room, maneuvering through and around and about colleagues and acquaintances, former and – his smile grew – future research partners. Barry nudged him out of his reverie.

"She finally coming?"

"July 26th. Nine A.M. For six days."

"But you don't do pushups before nine A.M. anymore."

Owen threw the smirking caretaker a look. "She's old enough to be my mother."

"Yeah, but she doesn't look it."

Owen's face darkened. "You are saying all the wrong things, Barry. All the wrong things."

"Alright, alright," he acquiesced, accepting a drink from a server. "I'm being good. But only because Masrani's right behind you."

Owen spun; Mr. Masrani was indeed feet away, heading towards them with a swift, proud stride. First Dr. Harding, now the director? Sure, it was a significant presentation for a significant audience, but this made two A-listers in under three minutes. Still, seeing Masrani seize Barry's open hand, it was satisfying to be recognized for their efforts by the man whose title would imply he couldn't be bothered with such menial things.

Masrani beamed at the pair, congratulating them.

"A fine job, both of you. Your presentation certainly captivated. IBRIS aside, you may have revived the interest in the species it has been lacking the last few years."

"Thank you, sir."

"Think if you had highlighted your upcoming research with Dr. Harding!" Masrani said, clapping Owen on the shoulder. He turned to the server, carefully taking a champagne flute in each hand. "I have no doubt you would have taken a larger crowd."

"We're looking forward to having her input," Owen said. "I'd rather let the research hold its own until we've actually gotten the opportunity to work with her, not just the promise of it."

Masrani nodded, half-raising one of the glasses to him. "I can understand that. I know Hammond would have her here if he were still with us. He always valued her instincts in her work, much as you will come to yourselves."

Owen's smile lessened. It was more than just Hammond's absence that prevented Sarah Harding from being part of Jurassic World; InGen was the main offender, never mind how off-putting the whole San Diego incident had likely been for her. She could probably be offered millions in salary and still turn this place down. He was just fortunate that she said yes to a research stint with him after he'd reached out half a dozen times.

Masrani looked over his shoulder, and Owen followed his line of sight toward the muted paleobotanic fossil displays along the far wall. The crowd was thinning where the recessed white lights bathed a series of mounted fossils, but a shock of red hair in a black cocktail dress remained in amiable conversation with one of the guests. And her drink was rather empty.

Claire. That was it.

Senior Whats-Its Whatever. Masrani's right hand.

The cream Calvin Klein suit that begrudgingly brought Barry over to the paddock when Hoskins hired him because she was running late to meet with some logo. The houndstooth sweater dress that almost lost it when she spotted a snag on the ankle of her sheer black tights. The uppity grey pencil skirt and sleeveless navy turtleneck that oversaw the raptor paddock inspection two months ago.

Owen gave Masrani a sideways look, half-thankful they were interrupted by the lanky Communications executive before the director saw the suspicious crease of his brow.

"Dominic!" Masrani tried to spin the Rolex on his wrist, awkwardly accomplishing as much without spilling so much as a drop of champagne. "Don't tell me it's 8:00 already?"

Owen's gaze slipped from Masrani to Claire Cocktail, her eyes catching his while she was mid-sentence, distractedly thrumming a delicate rhythm on the stem of her now-empty glass.

Dominic sucked in a breath between his large teeth, hands clasped behind his back as he leaned forward at an austere angle between Owen and Masrani. "Ah, 8:04. The ferry was delayed, I'm afraid, but we've got a chopper inbound."

"Christ alive, Wu's going to miss the keynote if I don't get over there," Masrani muttered to the champagne in his hands. Owen followed his glances between the Perignon and Claire; clearly there was a dilemma in delivering her drink or keeping the Chief Scientist happy. Dominic motioned to Claire.

"Should I get Ms. Dearing as well?"

Masrani frowned and shook his head. "No, no. She's fine here. Owen," – his eyes snapped to attention, immediately falling to the extended flutes – "would you mind? It's hardly proper to get the lady a drink and dash off, but it'd be a great deal less on my conscious knowing it got to her. Here, take mine as well."

Owen twisted his lip with a half-smile, accepting the proffered drinks. "Not at all, sir. My pleasure."

Masrani chuckled, readjusting his watch as he made to follow Dominic. "She doesn't bite, I swear. Not nearly as bad as your raptors anyway. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen."

Owen could practically hear Barry smirking as Masrani left. The keeper's hand came down on his shoulder, hardly biting back his amusement.

"'Enjoy' is such a strong word."

The Gallimimus Gala.

Honestly.

Their most accomplished, prestigious donors, and they host a fine, extravagant event for them called The Gallimimus Gala.

Sometimes, Claire wondered if the board of directors actually listened to themselves.

Not that the name was unappealing to the type of crowd they were targeting; seven years on, and this event increased in attendees annually, translating to a better bottom line, stronger networking amongst prospective sponsors, and the ability to pursue new projects and captivating attractions.

It just made her cringe to see "Gallimimus Gala" scrawled in beautiful gold-foil calligraphy on the invitations. Not that they would go as plain as "donors' gala" or "founder's fundraiser"; their alternatives had been similarly, alliteratively titled "The Brachiosaur Benefit" and "The Dilophosaurus Dinner." She drew the line on "The Pachy Pageant", quite certain at that point they just wanted to watch her squirm in her chair.

Ludacris names aside, she fell into a comfortable role each year, mingling with millionaires, scientists, and philanthropists keen on the marvels within Jurassic World. Type-A business minds like herself were probably the most intriguing; CEOs and presidents of worldwide corporations wanted their names associated with this place, if only to fulfill their childhood wonders of seeing real-life dinosaurs. The youthful light in their eyes came out as effortlessly as it did for any guest, business arrangements and contracts momentarily left to the wind as they took in the reality of it all. It was always that moment of childlike disembodiment that all but secured the deal.

This evening found her more of a hostess than anything, however. Donors asking questions about the itinerary, commenting on the array of exhibitions, complementing the park. A business card or two found its way into her clutch, and she was rather glad a Waterford crystal found its way into her hand by Masrani between fossil enthusiasts.

She was just wondering how long it would actually be until he returned with the second.

The ballroom was crawling with servers, but as were people that likely wanted to speak with him. And this was no dire situation to get impatient over; it was just nice to sip imported champagne in eveningwear for a change.

Seeing guests migrate to the Stegosaur showcase, Claire opted to revel in the lack of commotion around her, discreetly leaning against the long wooden ledge. She sat her clutch and empty glass beside her, stared into the white light of the glass display before her, and silently tried to pronounce and repronounce araucarioxylon arizonicum as she fingered the smooth, clear polish on her nail.

Wood. It was petrified wood.

"Do Perignon and paleobotany really mix?"

"They do toni-"

Claire's hand was already halfway to the extended flute when she looked up, batting her eyelashes to see not Masrani, but Owen Grady smirking at her.

"Mr. Masrani went to get Dr. Wu," he explained. "He sent me with this."

She dismissed the few nonsensical utterances she let slip in her surprise, shutting her eyes and shaking her head before accepting the drink with a tight smile.

"Well, then. Thank you. Mr. Grady."

"Owen."

He touched his glass to hers, raising it with his eyebrows. Part of him wasn't sure if he expected her to remember his name, and part of him was egging her on. Claire decided to indulge him with an introductory drink, turning toward him more fully. He nearly emptied the glass in one go, and it made her want to best him. Still, she restrained herself to a modest sip as he flicked the stem of the glass, coaxing a dull, tinkling note from it.

"Didn't see you at the IBRIS presentation."

"I've had many donors and other exhibitions to see."

"Yeah, fossil composition," he droned, nodding back at the zamites feneonis slab. "Way cooler."

She smiled, not quite letting him see it.

"You seemed to have drawn enough of a crowd." The largest one so far that evening. "Not bad for your first presentation at a fundraiser. How are you enjoying it?"

Owen tossed his head side-to-side, narrowing his eyes. "It could use some stouter glasses and darker drinks."

Claire hummed against the rim of her champagne flute.

"Well, I won't disagree with you."

"You wouldn't," he huffed. "I saw you slam a few Fireballs the other night."

Claire froze, setting her drink on the display. She glanced at Owen, mouth slightly agape; his head was thrown back mid-drink, eyebrows raised again. Claire repositioned herself into a no-nonsense stance, lowering her voice and piercing him with a withering look.

"What?"

"Origins? Thursday night? Green number with the ponytail? That was you."

Claire huffed out an incredulous laugh toward the ceiling as his smug grin closed in on her. Tame though the evening had been, she felt exposed. Why was she even letting this raptor wrangler make her feel like she had been 'caught'? Because he cleaned up well? Because she was apparently right when she thought she had seen him out of the corner of her eye on her way to the restroom?

No. Hell no. She was entitled to a night out occasionally.

She steeled herself at his insistent silence, though her own lips were hardly thinned enough to snuff out amused guilt.

"Zara had some friends in last week and talked me into going," she admitted, wrapping her free arm around herself. "I wasn't exactly in my element, I'm sure you observed."

Owen lowered his drink at the knowing bite in her tone, nodding slowly. "I never was one for subtly after a few rounds."

"And how many rounds have you had tonight, Mr. Grady?"

"Relax," he drawled, taking a step closer and fixing her with his bright eyes. "I just gave a flawless speech to all of your precious donors and had them eating out of the palm of my hand. Give me a little credit."

The complacent, perpetual crease in his brow deepened in a way that made Claire feel cut off from the rest of the room. Despite the heels, she still felt the need to heighten herself and square her shoulders. She was not about to delve into an unwarranted, off-topic study of her character àla Owen Grady.

She picked up her drink, subconsciously surveying the temperament of the guests milling about in an attempt to reorient the conversation. Not that she didn't like that green dress, but she wasn't exactly ready to openly discuss it, aloud, with him, at their biggest function of the season. Especially when he was already exchanging his empty flute for a full one with the passing server. He caught her look and toasted her.

"Second one. Swear."

She wet her lips with the dry bubbles, clearing her throat when they tried to dance down her windpipe.

"Does your family donate? Owen?"

He laughed, scratching lightly at the underside of his clean-shaven chin. "I come from simpler beginnings than that. But I have donated canned food, blood, and eight years to Navy before Hoskins scooped me up. Dolphins to raptors seems like a huge leap, but not when you look at the intellect of the two."

Claire inclined her head toward him. "You worked with dolphins in the Navy?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said readily. "Even our best technology can't match the sonar of a dolphin. Never mind how sophisticated their hearing is, how well they communicate as a team, and - perhaps this is stating the obvious - they can dive a hell of a lot deeper over longer periods of time than a human without getting the benz."

She chuckled into her drink, finishing it off. Owen tentatively reached for her glass, and she allowed him to slip it out of her hand and replace it with his untouched flute. She thanked him, crossing to a large marble pillar nearby and leaning against it, away from the eyes of the room.

"Did you have any sort of interest in working with the raptors when Hoskins approached you," she asked as he followed, "or did you always want to work exclusively with marine life and just…decided you couldn't turn down his offer?"

"It was an amazing offer, yeah," Owen agreed. "But I was more interested in having an opportunity to study the behavior of an extinct species. Applying what I knew about dolphins and primates and crows and seeing what, if any, of the same traits pertained to a pack of velociraptors. And to what to degree."

The corners of Claire's lips edged upward. She'd thought this muscled tux was just another armed forces recruit, a kid that had wanted to grow up and go to sea or had a very strict, strategic logic about him. And perhaps he did to an extent, but it was a learned behavior. Because in just under two minutes, it was evident that she'd misjudged his priorities; Owen was an animal behaviorist, and all the tactical brawn he'd acquired from the Navy was just happenstance. For all intents and purposes, it seemed a side gig.

"So, as a boy…"

Owen smiled. "Oh, I had an interest. Read books by Bakker, Horner, Grant…" He looked sideways at Claire, falling into the shadow of the pillar with her. "Can't imagine why he's not here."

Claire levelled her brow, brushing a hair from the skirt of her dress. "Try."

"Was he kept quiet like Malcolm?"

She huffed out an impatient sigh, reaching up to pull an errant hair from his shoulder. "Dr. Grant and Jurassic World maintain a mutual distance from one another." She picked another off his torso, pulling her knee aside as she let it fall from between her fingers to the floor. When she caught herself in the middle of smoothing away any other debris from his jacket, she looked up at him, slowly recoiling at the placid humor on his face.

"Sorry."

Owen blinked. "By all means. I'd return the favor, but you are impeccably clean."

Claire took another drink, unable to quite look him in the eye. "Did you- did you know Dr. Grant? Aside from his books?"

"Unfortunately, no. But there was this guy from my college," he began, leaning against the pillar next to her as he adjusted his wristwatch, "he interned at Grant's dig in the Badlands. He was getting ready to go at the end of my first semester. A year later, we heard the rumors about Isla Sorna; how he got torn up real bad."

Claire lowered her glass, dropping her ear closer as the applause for the Stegosaur exhibition filled the room. He turned to her so that only his shoulder was propping him up, the buttons of his jacket on her arm and the scent of his aftershave filling her lungs.

"'Torn up'?" Claire ventured.

Owen made a face, nodding when their eyes met. "Told people it was from a car wreck. Which isn't a lie," he continued. "He wrecked on his way down to Mygate-Moore in Colorado not a year after that. Damn near lost his leg."

Claire cringed inwardly. She'd not heard much about the Isla Sorna incident involving Grant, and she had a feeling if she asked Masrani about it, he very well may decide it's not the kind of thing he needed to bring her up to speed on and politely decline to comment.

"Any of Hammond's family still show up?"

"What, here?" Claire gave a strained smile. "Not really. I'm told his grandson donates anonymously to the research aspect of development, but nothing goes to operations or attractions. Though I suppose Mr. Masrani has that end taken care of."

"Does he… have you taken care of?"

Claire's eyelashes fluttered in confusion, but the moment Owen flashed his eyebrows, she leaned away, lips parting at his suggestion.

"Wh-? What are you asking me?"

"You know exactly what I'm asking you."

"And it's highly inappropriate."

"Come on," Owen chided, nudging her arm. "You and Masrani…?"

Claire looked around to ensure no one was in earshot, actively working to keep her mouth closed. The nerve!

"…Maintain a very courteous and professional relationship void of such things, Mr. Grady."

"Great." He smiled fully and took her empty flute from her. "Then let's get out of here." At the question etched in her furrowed brow, Owen tossed his eyes toward the exit. "We could walk down to the Bamboo Forest or the golf course. Sneak into the pool."

With each proposal, a trace of amusement smoothed her indignant scowl. She was still biting back her grin as he put their glasses on the corner of the nearest display; he was an ass. That much she could say for certain. Unfortunately for her, he wore it rather well, he knew it, and she could admire someone with her level of confidence.

When he returned to her, he was much too close for a function of this caliber. She gasped imperceptibly as his thumb grazed her cheek. He was not about t—

"Eyelash."

"Oh."

Claire dropped her eyes, and her smile erupted involuntarily. She reeled it in, warm under Owen's patient scrutiny. He was so close. His eyes were bright with determination.

"How about," he half-whispered, "since we can't leave in the middle of a gala, we plan a proper outing. Dinner. Something cooler than the Bamboo Forest."

He found her hand and slowly chased the goosebumps up her arm.

"I- I'm a very busy person, Mr. Grady."

"I don't exactly sit around playing video games all day." She stuttered wordlessly over a few excuses she didn't want to give, and he cut the crap. "Just go to dinner with me."

Claire sighed. The room was quieting for the next speaker.

"I'll have to check with Zara about my schedule," she conceded, "but I think I'm free next Thursday."

Owen nodded. He let go of her arm, turned towards the room, and held up his arm.

"I can make that happen."

Claire took his arm with a peeking grin.

"Where are we going now?"

"Now? Now, I'm going to show you my research," he said. "The months of painstaking work you so thoughtlessly dismissed while batting your eyelashes at Masrani earlier."