Disclaimer: I do not own the Jurassic Park/World franchise or any of it's characters; I only own the characters and plots of my own mind.
38. Recovery Period
Bozeman, Montana
It was freezing in Bozeman.
There was snow on the ground and a biting wind, which had Gwyn hissing in shocked discomfort. The flannel of Alan's shirt did little to nothing to keep her warm, and it felt like the air was stabbing her face. It was a stark reminder that she'd spent the last half of the year on a tropical island. She'd grown accustomed to heat and humidity. The new 'cold' was a temperature in the mid sixties. But in Bozeman, at a little past two-thirty in the morning, it was thirteen degrees. And even the heating in the cab of Alan's truck, and the wool of his emergency blanket wasn't enough to keep her from shivering. What made it all worse was that she was tired. Even the seven-some hour plane ride hadn't allowed Gwyn a pleasant rest. Any time they hit turbulence, she was wide-awake. The unexpected screech of a young child sent her heart racing. It had been a long flight, which had followed a long day, and she was ready to sleep. Preferably for the next week.
When they pulled up to her house, Gwyn almost started to cry. Because while she'd been able to acknowledge that it was, indeed, over––being home made it final. The island was over three-thousand miles behind her, and the traveling was done. She was home. Her well-loved truck sat in the driveway, with snow piled up in its bed. The walkway was shoveled, though covered in a thin layer of snow. All the curtains and shades were drawn, and the wreath she usually put up for the holidays was hung on the door. It was a relief to be somewhere that Gwyn knew was safe. Somewhere that she knew every inch of, from the front door to the view from the backyard. It was such an intense feeling of relief that Gwyn very nearly felt she could fall asleep right there in the truck.
"C'mon, let's get you inside," Alan urged. He killed the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition, and sought out a different key––a house key.
With a tired groan of agreement, Gwyn reached out to pop her door open. The light overhead burst to life, and the icy air flooded into the cabin. The hiss that left Gwyn's mouth was immediate and instinctive. She was reminded of the fact that she was still wearing shorts the moment she swung a leg out. A swear tumbled past her lips as she slipped into the frigid air. The blanket was pulled tighter around her shoulders, one of which she used to shut the truck door. The slam of it echoed through the sleeping neighborhood. But she couldn't bring herself to wince at the sound, or care if any of her neighbors woke up and poke their heads through their curtains. She was sure that was inevitable come morning.
Gwyn waddled towards the front door as fast as she cud. It felt like cement had stiffened her kneecaps; it made her pace feel glacial––which matched the temperature, she supposed. The ground was a little slickery, which made it evident that the driveway hadn't been salted recently. By the time she was at the front door, Alan had already opened it and flicked the light on. The earthy toned curtains glowed warmly in the window. And with an exhausted sigh, she let her father usher her inside.
The first thing that struck Gwyn was that it still smelled homey. It hadn't obtained that dusty, stale smell that came from disuse. It smelled, faintly, of her few candles with just the slightest tinge of cleaning sprays. She supposed she had Alan to thank for that. When she'd left for Isla Nublar, he'd agreed to stop by the house every once and a while and see to its upkeep. It wasn't something that he had to do––it was something that he'd wanted to do. Alan had even gone the extra mile and watered not only her plants, but her garden as well. Because of him, her house still looked, felt, and smelled like a home.
"Thanks for looking after the place," Gwyn said.
Alan nodded, shut the door, and smiled at her gently. It was a smile filled with a careful relief. It was loving to the utmost degree, a kind of look that only Gwyn ever really got to see. "Of course, sweetheart." He jerked his chin towards the couch, brows vaulting. "You should sit."
Gwyn nodded and started to plod towards the couch. Her boots––both muddy and damp with snow––clomped against the wood floor hollowly. While she moved through the familiar space, she was struck with how dream-like it felt. She felt like she moved on autopilot, punch drunk, almost. It was muscle memory that had her stopping and plopping down onto the couch; she very nearly cried upon sitting down. But before she could finally relax, she had to get her boots off. All of the running had left her with blisters, and her feet felt swollen. With fingers so tired they felt weak, Gwyn tugged on the laces; once they came undone, she wormed the left boot off first. An almost elated exhale passed from her lips once it came off.
"Don't fall asleep there, you'll get a crick in your neck," Alan drawled.
With a hum, Gwyn tugged her other boot off and kicked them both under her coffee table. She peeled off one sock to reveal bright pink skin, and a sizable blister on the ball of her foot. "I think a sore neck will be the least of my aches and pains," she drawled right back.
"Don't add to what you've already got, then," he advised.
"Fair enough…" she sighed tiredly. Alan was right; when she woke up later in the day, she was going to be in a world of hurt. The throbbing in her feet and the ache in her knees forewarned of mobility issues. Gwyn shucked off her other sock and then immediately flopped back into the couch cushions. They were well-loved and conformed to her body in the best possible way.
The cushion beside hers depressed as Alan sat down. Without a word, Gwyn folded herself into her father's side. Her head dropped to his shoulder, eyes having slipped shut. He wrapped an arm over her shoulders, huddling her against him caringly. The culmination of all their hellish moments always resulted in something like this. Something warm, and quiet, and loving. Because that was always what they needed in the wake of trauma and tragedy. The Grants were, unfortunately, terribly versed in dealing with this special kind of aftermath. It was a fragile thing to navigate. If discretion was not taken, everything could come tumbling down on them in a terrible wave. So the two of them sat there in silence, reveling in their own states of relief––for Gwyn, that was being home. For Alan, it was that she was alive.
"I turned up the thermostat," he mentioned quietly.
"Thank you…" Gwyn murmured groggily. A moment passed before her brows furrowed over her still closed eyes. "Are you staying the night?"
"If you'd like me to."
"I do."
Gwyn was well versed in what would come next. She would go to bed, fall fast asleep thanks to her exhaustion––and then she'd awaken overcome with anxiety. A pounding heart would thrum in her chest, her eyes would be blown unnecessarily wide, and her breathing would be rapid and harsh. Memories both old and new will have torn through her subconscious. For a moment, she'd likely not remember where she was. And the thought of going through that pain alone was frightening. For as much as she'd found ways to handle the nightmares and the night terrors, she knew that they were going to be worse, now. For a little while, at least. Knowing that there would be someone else in the house with her was a great comfort.
There was a gentle pressure as Alan dropped a kiss to the crown of her head. "Then I'll stay." He squeezed her shoulders a little, and a sigh fled his mouth. "I'm sorry, Gwyn."
The apology had her head perking up and her eyes opening. She stared up at Alan, whose face had crumpled into something filled with pain and regret. The way the corners of his mouth twitched spoke to the way he tried not to let emotion overcome him. His hold on her tightened just a bit––but it was enough to be horribly telling.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"That this happened to you again."
Gwyn straightened up, brow furrowed as she stared at her father incredulously. "Why?"
Alan blanched. He twisted his head around to gape at her, worry rife in his expression. "What d'you mean 'why'?"
"It's not your fault, you don't have to apologize," she clarified.
The emotional crumple to Alan's face shifted into something else. Something harder, sharper. He set his jaw and pursed his lips, but the watery gleam in his eyes remained.
"I have every right to be sorry for what you've gone through. You're my daughter." There was a sternness to his words, but it wasn't accusatory. It was firm, unfiltered, blunt––everything that the Grants were known to be. "I spent twelve hours trying to come to terms with the possibility that you were…" He cut himself off, a quiet choked sound catching in the back of his throat. The teariness in his eyes grew stronger. "I am sorry. Because I love you, and I know the hell that you're gonna be going through."
While they'd traveled, there hadn't been much talking. It was clear Alan didn't know what was okay to ask about, and, frankly, Gwyn didn't know either. So what conversation they'd had was small, and about inconsequential stuff. From the price of water at the airport to how cold it had been in Bozeman. But something nitty-gritty had just been breached. And both of the Grants were too emotionally compromised to have a genuine discussion––and both of them knew that. And yet, falling in line with the family stubborn streak, neither of them seemed to want to step down. Gwyn sat forward, elbows braced on her knees, and pressed her hands against her forehead.
"But none of it is your fault, Dad, don't be sorry." Both hands dropped away from her face and flopped limply between her injured knees. "If there's anyone to blame for it, it's me, so I'll… be sorry for myself when I have the energy for it."
"Don't you do that," Alan drawled lowly. There was a shuffling on the couch as he shifted around in an urgent kind of discomfort. Gwyn glanced at him from over her shoulder, and found him leveling a stern finger at her. "Don't you put all this on yourself."
Both of Gwyn's shoulders slumped and her head dropped to hang between them. She had been told twice, now, not to put what had happened on herself. But with what revelations she'd been struck with towards the end of the ordeal, it was hard not to. To put some amount of the blame on herself.
"There's some stuff that happened, Dad, that…" she cut herself off, voice quavering. "Something happened that…" Again, the words stuck in her throat. The image of Ingrid glaring down at her was flung sharply to the forefront of her mind. A long breath passed through puckered lips. It was like her body had stopped her from speaking of what had happened. Her exhaustion was like to send her into a fit of tears if she even tried.
Alan's hand appeared in the middle of her back, where it started to rub comforting circles. The gesture was comforting, and it was certainly almost enough to make her cry. But her eyes felt bone dry. Whether it be dehydration or exhaustion, Gwyn was all cried out.
"You don't have to talk about it. Not now. Not ever, if you don't want. If you want to, though… I'm here to listen. Always will be, sweetheart. But I think it's time you got some rest, proper rest," Alan suggested.
"Yeah… probably a good idea…" Gwyn exhaled.
It took some effort to get herself up and off the couch––the aches were already really beginning to set in. She shuffled towards her bedroom, blistered feet skimming over cold hardwood. Alan followed quietly with hands shoved in his pockets. They passed by photographs of themselves lovingly hung on the walls. Artsy photographs of the Badlands. A framed article or two. But none of it was acknowledged, not even with a familiar sideways glance. Gwyn's eyes were tiredly fixated on the door at the end of the hall, which sat slightly ajar. When the bedroom door was reached, she turned back to her father. Wordlessly, both of them wrapped the other in a tight embrace.
"I love you, Gwyn," Alan murmured into her shoulder.
"I know. I love you, too," she replied. And when she pulled away, her hands holding his arms, she smiled at him sadly. "I will talk to you. About… everything. Just…" Her face screwed up something fierce. Alan's hands, which had been grasping her elbows, squeezed tight.
"Not tonight," he finished with a nod. A hand jumped to clasp her cheek, a thumb running across it affectionately. He, too, smiled a melancholy smile. The creases that appeared at the corners of his eyes usually out of mirth, were born of sadness this time. He craned his head forward and kissed her forehead. "Get some sleep. You know where I am if you need me."
"Thanks, Dad."
With that, Gwyn stepped into her room and shut the door. She didn't bother with the light––if she had, she would've fallen asleep with it on. Instead, she blindly moved towards her bed, the pale sliver of light across which beckoned to her enticingly. Too tired to do much of anything else, Gwyn stripped out of anything that wasn't the flannel. Her shorts and under things sat in a bloodied, dirtied, sweat laden heap beside the bed. She felt grimy. What she desperately needed was a shower; the wet paper towels she'd wiped over her face, neck, and arms at the airport hadn't done much. But, frankly, it was the last thing she cared about. Because as Gwyn quite literally face-planted into bed, she was nearly immediately claimed by sleep. She had just enough energy left to roll herself up in her comforter, before exhaustion wiped her out.
OOOO
The one thing the universe seemed to grant Gwyn was a restful sleep. No nightmares had her thrashing in her sheets. No terrors shook her awake. It was an eventless nine hours of sleep, which was complete and unadulterated bliss. It was almost noon by the time she was out of bed. The sky was cloudy, and the light outside was grey, for which she found herself oddly thankful. She wasn't sure how she'd have handled a bright, sunny, happy looking day in the wake of what happened. The gentler, cooler atmosphere proved to soothe her somewhat. Her aches and pains had, indeed, gotten worse over night. It left Gwyn wobbling down the hall, her hand pressed against the wall for cautious support. A wince grimaced her lips, mostly for the fact that the sleeping pants she'd put on before leaving her room were flannel. And while warm, the fabric was catching on her freshly scabbed-over knees uncomfortably. But she was already halfway to the living room, and she wasn't giving that progress up.
Upon reaching the end of the hall, Gwyn shuffled around the corner into the living room. Alan was sat on the couch, coffee mug in hand, eyes trained on the television. The air smelled like coffee and syrup, a combination of scents that were so wholesome and homey, that it made her already aching chest ache some more. The news was on, and Gwyn didn't even have to look at the ticker to know what they were talking about; the tenseness of her father's shoulders spoke wonders. The volume was low, likely in a bid to not wake her up prematurely. But now that she was stood at the end of the hall, she could hear it perfectly fine.
"The world continues to ride the aftershocks of what happened on Isla Nublar only two days ago," the reporter was saying. "The demise of the beloved theme park came as a surprise to many––what were there warning signs? Could this tragedy have been prevented? More on that after the break."
"I forgot how much of a shitstorm the media kicks up about this stuff," Gwyn deadpanned. Alan's head immediately whipped around towards her, and one of his hands sought out the remote. One of his fingers stretched for the power button, and she raised a hand to waggle it dismissively. "Leave it on."
Alan's lips thinned out into something fatherly, and his brows pulled low over his eyes. "Is that self-serving?"
"I wanna see how they're covering all this bullshit. 'Cause I know that the minute I open up my email I'm gonna have… some request from someone asking for a statement. When I replace my phone, the calls are gonna flood in…" Gwyn started to waddle towards the couch, fingers rubbing at one of her eyes. Alan retracted his hand from the remote with a slow reluctance. "I need to know how cynical I can be. I imagine they're probably looking for something… inspiring, so I gotta start planning now."
A snort tore through Alan's nostrils at the word 'inspiring.'
"Just tell 'em how it is, you've got enough evidence to be as cynical as you want," he pointed out.
"Besides, I might as well bite the bullet; the media coverage is gonna be haunting me for months."
Gwyn plopped down onto the couch––and immediately groaned in relief. Her knees and her feet were killing her already; the steadily growing burning across her left bicep was playing second fiddle on the pain scale. She carefully lifted both legs onto the couch, and let them stretch in the space between herself and Alan. He carefully inspected every single move that she made. His face crinkled with each grunt or uncomfortable sound she made. The moment she started to wrestle a spare pillow between her back and arm of the couch, Alan was on his feet.
"I'll get you some pain killers," he said, leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table.
Gwyn made an appreciative sound as her hands rose to massage her eye sockets. "And some coffee, if you don't mind."
A half-smile quirked up the corner of his mouth. "And some coffee," he agreed.
Gwyn smiled gently after him, her fingers tugging at the hem of her borrowed shirt sleeves. If there was anyone who ever doubted Alan's parenting skills, it was moments like this that she would happily redirect them to. The instinctive, intense care that he operated with was remarkable. Magnificent, even. He'd been comfortably sat on the couch, settled in after a long twenty-four hours of traveling. But the minute she'd even sighed in discomfort, he was on his feet ready to try and rectify it. He was the best father she ever could have asked for; and he proved that time and time again. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her. And there certainly wasn't anything that she wouldn't do for him.
Gwyn shifted her attention back to the television, expression sobering. Sometime in her reverie, the news had come back on air. The woman on screen looked the epitome of a news anchor, from the almost-too-stiff hair style, to the faux pearl and rhinestone earrings, to the monochrome outfit. Her face was expertly composed in the typical anchor mask of professional curiosity and concern.
"––this is not, unfortunately, the first such incident to happen on Isla Nublar," the anchor announced. A short huffed sound left Gwyn's mouth, and her brows quirked. Her expression tensed up as the news report cut to old, but familiar, press images. Alan rushing past cameras beside a gurney, bent over it to shield an unconscious Gwyn from prying eyes. Ellie rushing after them with a frazzled Tim hiding his face in her neck. "In 1992, John Hammond opened Jurassic Park to special professionals for review. What was meant to be a hopeful preview turned into twenty-four hours of terror."
Gwyn tuned out the history recap, and instead sat entranced by the photographs cycling across the screen. A collective collage of all the original survivors' images popped up––all from the time of the incident, of course, because pictures of children made more impact than those of their grown counterparts. They cycled through pictures taken intrusively upon all their arrivals back home––Tim and Lex shying away from the cameras as their parents tried to simultaneously usher them away and tell off the press. Gwyn, very obviously bandaged and tired, tucked in between Ellie and Alan, who glowered at cameras darkly. For as much of an isolated incident that the original incident had been, the press was quick to exploit it the minute they caught wind of it.
"Damn vultures…" Alan griped upon his return. He glared at the television, as though it, too, were trying to take a snapshot of their pain. "Exploiting people's pain… should be illegal." He carried a coffee mug in one hand, and a plate in the other. Atop that plate were a couple of toaster waffles smothered in syrup. As he handed the plate to her, he set the mug on the coffee table, which he then pulled closer to the couch. "You didn't have much of anything in the kitchen, so I ran to the store, grabbed you some stuff."
Gwyn accepted the plate with a thankful hum. "Thanks, Dad. You didn't have to."
He snorted and pulled a bottle of painkillers out of his pocket. "Sure I did. What kind of father would I be if I let my daughter go hungry?"
"A bad one," she responded flatly, though playfully. She reached for the pill bottle, and Alan smirked down at her wryly.
"Can't say that I'm one of those, now, can you?"
"Never can, never could." Gwyn smiled up at him softly, genuinely. Alan huffed a little breath, smiled to himself, and sat himself down by her feet. She screwed the cap of the bottle off and tapped out what she needed. "So, has the world spiraled into chaos already? People… staring in super markets, gaping at stop lights?"
Alan pulled a face and cocked his head to the side in contemplation. His shoulders rose and fell. "A couple of looks, but I'm not really the subject of the tragedy this time." He arched an eyebrow at his daughter. "That'd be you, sweetheart."
Gwyn hummed lowly, unexcitedly, and tossed the pills into her mouth. She swallowed them dry and chased them down with a gulp of hot coffee.
It was something that happened following every Jurassic Park related incident, whether they were directly involved or not. After the first incident, going out into the world was a hellscape. People stopped and stared, muttered to their companions, some even approached with questions. People did it after San Diego, and after Isla Sorna. They did it when Jurassic World opened in 2005. It ultimately ended up dissuading them from really going out till things calmed down. Quietly, Gwyn recalled the conversation she'd had with Claire––the one that hailed the Grants as celebrities. They were celebrities for their experiences, and their trauma, and their pain. It was more likely that people knew Gwyn as a Jurassic Park survivor first, and a leading paleontologist second. And that reputation was only going to grow.
"Can't wait," she grumbled. She worked the side of her fork through one of the waffles, and pulled a chunk off. Her appetite had returned, but not with a ferocity; her body just felt confused. It was trying to figure out how to heal itself while simultaneously returning to normal functioning. At least there was no jet lag to be had––thank god Montana and Isla Nublar existed in the same time zone.
"––and now, twenty-three years later, we have witnessed history repeat itself," said the news anchor. Gwyn glanced over at the television as she shoveled a bite of waffle into her mouth. Sunny, happy promotional pictures started to cycle across the screen, showing Jurassic World operating on a good day. Smiling faces, state of the art facilities, dinosaurs thriving in their paddocks. "Two days ago, it seemed like business as usual at Jurassic World; tourists flocked to watch mosasaurus feeding shows, or took a stroll through the botanic gardens. But come afternoon, the perfect vacation became the perfect nightmare."
The sound of screaming came on so suddenly, that Gwyn thought, maybe she was having a flashback. Her hand tightened around her fork, all her muscles stiffened, and her eyes blew wide. That blown gaze shot to the television screen, on which they presented phone footage of the chaos of the pterosaur attack on Main Street. People running, screaming, falling, diving. For a long, terrible moment, Gwyn couldn't look away. And then, with a nauseated pull deep in her stomach, she dropped her gaze. A chill ran through her body as she recalled the horrors that they weren't allowed to show live on TV––the blood on the pavement, the people being snatched up by razor sharp talons. All of the death. Quite suddenly, the news was too much to watch.
The older pictures, the old news clips, the old memories––those were scarred over like the wound across her chest. She could endure them with grace, acknowledging that they'd happened. But the newer stuff––the social media clips, the posts, the photographs––was still freshly stitched together, just like the slashes across her arm. They burned, ached, and nagged. Whenever Gwyn heard or talked about what happened in '92, it was almost like a history lesson. A painful one to recall, but one she was able to speak about with some amount of grace. But she wasn't as removed from the events of Jurassic World. They still throbbed in her bones, bled from her arm, and made her head swim. So, with a grimace, Gwyn grabbed the remote control off the coffee table and turned the television off. The silence that followed was deafening.
"You were right," she deadpanned to Alan. She forcefully tore another chunk off her waffle. "That wasn't very self-serving." She shoved the piece of waffle into her mouth and chewed it half-heartedly.
On the other end of the couch, Alan sighed gently and smiled melancholically. "Us Grants don't really know what's self-serving, do we?" he inquired rhetorically.
With a snort, Gwyn shook her head.
"Sure don't."
Both father and daughter lapsed into silence, then. Gwyn had thought that biting the bullet and watching the news would be beneficial; be it for arming herself with knowing how the media was handling it, or getting a jump on getting used to it. But she'd been wrong. Very, very wrong––and all she wanted to do was go back to bed. She picked at her breakfast while newly forged memories threatened to claw their way to the forefront of her mind. The vivid, fresh memories of Ingrid's teeth hovering before her face, gunfire in the darkness, blood on the pavement. That last recollection left Gwyn gagging a little at the viscous syrup in her mouth. For a moment, her mind tricked her into thinking it tasted metallic.
"If you're up to it later, you should give Ellie a call," Alan mentioned, tone fatherly.
Gwyn swallowed her mouthful of suddenly too goopy syrup and half-chewed waffle. She chased it down with coffee, and winced at the heat of it. "If you let me use your phone, I'll do it later."
"And Timmy––I've got five missed calls from the kid," he added on.
The mention of Tim––and his affectionate nickname––was enough to send Gwyn into a short bout of fond laughter. But it faded into a melancholic expression, brows furrowing and lips twisting as she considered the collateral damage caused by her presence on the island. The worry that she'd put Alan, Ellie, and Tim through. She lifted a hand and braced it over her eyes and furrowed brows. A hearty grimace marred her lips.
"Yeah, okay," she murmured. Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet, warbling as though on the edge of tears. A long, slow inhale was pulled in through her nose, held, and then released shakily. Gwyn dragged her fingers over her eyes, and gazed drably at her breakfast.
"Y'alright?" Alan placed a careful hand on her calf, thumb sweeping gently.
With a sniffle, Gwyn shook her head. She looked anywhere that wasn't at him, eyes eventually settling on a framed photograph of the Badlands. "I… forgot how hard this part was. The… not knowing what to do, not knowing how to feel… Everything that I've chosen to do so far has been wrong––watching the news, thinking even…" Tears started to roll down her cheeks. She felt small, suddenly, helpless. "I… feel like there's nothing I can do…" She hid her face behind her hand again, and choked back a cry.
The couch shifted as Alan stood. The plate disappeared from her lap, the weight of it disappearing as it was lifted away. With a gentle tap of her leg, and a murmured 'c'mon,' Gwyn shifted her legs so Alan could sit beside her. He huddled her against his side, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She cried quietly in frustration, trying to subdue the worst of the sounds; it only succeeded in giving her a headache.
"Just give it time. The healing starts now… and it's a rough, bumpy one, but a start nonetheless. And, sure, mistakes were made; but now we know what to avoid. We don't watch the news for a while. We… interrupt the bad thoughts with good ones, like we used to. You want normal to happen now, but we have to take steps towards it. Today's step might be small, but it is a step. Don't rush it," Alan advised gently.
Gwyn dropped her head to her father's shoulder, eyes scrunched shut. Her lips were still pulled in a grimace, and hiccups rattled her ribs. He was right––the recovery period was going to be hellish. It had been bad when she was eleven, and it was going to be bad at the age of thirty-two, too. The only difference this time around was that she was mobile. Her chest wound had put her out of commission for months as she recovered. The arm wound would make things difficult, but not impossible. When Gwyn had come off the island the first time, she was easily distracted by books and movies; this time around, recovery was going to go head-to-head with restlessness. She had nothing to do, now. No job to go to, no at-home work to busy herself with. She was able to acknowledge that the news would be on, and it would be talking about what she'd been through. And a morbid curiosity would always be trying to pull her in to watch it. To watch what nonsense was going to get spewed, what things were focused on this time around. But that would be detrimental; and Gwyn had a problem with recognizing detriments.
With a sigh, she couldn't help but think––one nightmare had ended, but another one was beginning.
OOOO
The time on the clock sat atop Gwyn's bedside table read as two-forty-one. It had been seven days exactly since she'd come home; and sleep had officially become the thing she was most hard-pressed for. The sky outside was still dark, and a pale slat of moonlight stretched between the curtains in the bedroom window. It was quiet, the neighborhood always was at night. The house was silent, like it always was in the wee hours of the morning. And Gwyn stared up at the ceiling listlessly, a hand flopped up by her head. Her fingers picked at a seam on her pillowcase. Beneath the covers, her feet twitched restlessly. She was tired––god, was she tired. But sleep escaped her. And, sometimes, it was because she chased it away.
Gwyn had lived twenty-three years of her life struggling with nightmares and night terrors. And with the influx of brand-new fodder for those issues to feet on, she feared what sleep might bring. The second night she was home, she'd woken up in a cold sweat, images of Ingrid's teeth flashing in front of her eyes. The third night, she'd staved off sleep for as long as possible; only to wake up the same way as the night before. The fourth was much the same. Gwyn was scared of the inevitable escalation. She feared the night she'd wake up heart pounding, legs tangled in the blankets, screaming out into a dark, empty room, in a dark, empty house. So now, on the seventh night, she contemplated staying awake till the sun was up.
With a groan so frustrated it was almost pained, Gwyn rolled onto her side and glowered at the clock. Only a minute had passed since she'd last checked it. A minute that had lasted a lifetime. After emitting another sound of irritation, her hand shot out to grab for her phone. The new case was unfamiliar in her hand. The background was a picture of the sun setting over the snowy mountains, something she'd taken from her partially obscuring that background was a notification––a text from Owen.
I forgot how deafening the quiet can be.
The corner of Gwyn's mouth lifted a little. She pulled her phone off its charger and pulled it closer. The light from the screen had her eyes narrowing as the bright-white of the text field appeared.
Yeah, it's silent as a crypt here. It's driving me crazy.
Once it was sent, she locked the screen and let her eyes readjust to the darkness. Late night––or early morning, rather––conversations had become commonplace in the last week. Owen had been having trouble sleeping, too, and he was dealing with the added obstacle of jetlag. It was him, in fact, that had sent the first early morning text a few days prior. They talked about anything and everything, but usually kept it light-hearted. The dynamic of their conversations was familiar, and a much needed comfort. Upon checking her phone again, it registered another new text.
Don't you have bugs up there?
The question, which Gwyn swore she could read in his voice, inspired a short chuckle out of her.
Yeah, but it's winter, remember? Nothing but snow in these here mountains. Don't you have bugs in Cali?
This time, she watched as a little bubble appeared, three dots flickering as Owen typed on the other end of the line. Then, they disappeared. After a moment, the screen briefly went dark before it registered an in-coming video call. Owen's contact picture popped up on screen, and absorbed the whole of it. It was one that he'd sent her mid-week, and it wasn't supposed to be his contact photo. He'd wanted to show her what one of his favorite beaches looked like at sunset––so he'd taken a picture of said beach, with his face in one of the lower corners. The orange and yellow of the sky and the rippling of the water was supposed to be the focus. But Owen's gently furrowed brow, concentration narrowed eyes, and the fact he was wearing a beanie had grabbed her attention the most.
Gwyn wrestled herself into a seated position and swiped to answer the call. There was a beat before the video feeds connected; and when it did, Owen's face appeared on screen. His brows furrowed immediately.
"I can't see you," he said. There was a tired gruffness to his voice, low and rumbling.
"Gimme a sec." Gwyn reached out and flicked her bedside lamp on, which filled the room with soft, warm light. She squinted at the sudden influx of light; she heard Owen chuckle.
"There ya are," he laughed.
Upon looking at the little square of her camera feed, Gwyn groaned. Her hair, which had been tied up, was now all messy from the tossing and turning. There were pillow creases on her cheek. Her shirt was wrinkled and bunched up around her neck. "I look awful," she drawled, smoothing a hand over her hair.
On screen, Owen smiled crookedly. "Y'look cute."
With a chuckle and a smirk, Gwyn rolled her eyes. "Glad you think so. 'Cause I don't have the energy to fix myself up nice." Her smirk grew a little bit, curling lopsidedly. "You're pretty cute, too."
"Am I?" he asked with a grin.
"Rumpled hair, cozy sweatshirt, dopey grin––yeah, pretty cute," she pointed out.
"Dopey? No, no, no, you're mixing that up with exhausted," Owen joked. And despite the fact it was a joke, there was a heaviness to it. The heaviness of reality. It was the reason why he'd called, why they were having this early morning conversation. They were both exhausted––physically, emotionally. A week couldn't fix the kind of exertion they'd been through; and the sleepy droop to Owen's eyes and the dark semi-circles beneath Gwyn's eyes were a testament to that.
The weight of all that settled over Gwyn, who dropped her head back against her headboard. "So… too quiet?"
Owen quirked his brows and shifted restlessly. His shoulder disturbed a navy-blue curtain that obscured a squat rectangular window. "Yeah. It's, uh… a big change from listening to all that tropical ruckus for five years. It's… too quiet, to risk quoting a cliché. I feel like, at any moment, everything's just gonna… I dunno…" He shrugged and scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Explode?" Gwyn offered. She heard him hum to agree, the sound muffled by his hand. "Yeah, it feels the same way here. When it snows, everything gets so… still. It feels fragile."
"Good to know it's not just me." It was said so quietly, almost to himself. It made Gwyn believe that this issue with it being quiet––the anticipation of something happening in that silence––was something that he'd struggled with before. His expression suggested the same thing; his eyes were down cast below furrowed brows, lips pulled into a frown. But, then, Owen cleared his throat and made a point of arching his eyebrows. "So, uh… how much snow've you got?"
Gwyn was a master of avoiding touchy subjects––and she could tell when someone wanted to steer a conversation away from one. So she narrowed her eyes at her bedroom window in contemplation.
"Five inches, I think, and we've got more expected on the weekend. We'll have a white Christmas, I guess."
"Got any plans?"
She shook her head. "Not really in the most… festive mood. But I'll have dinner with my Dad like we always do. Keep the tradition going. How 'bout you?"
"Family Christmas party," he drawled. "Uncles and aunts, cousins, kids… lots of noise." A grimace pulled across his face, and he shook his head. "My Mom wanted to pare down the list, but I couldn't let her. Didn't feel right, not on Christmas. Besides, I've got this," he gestured at his surroundings, the trailer he now called home, "to escape to."
"It's always nice to have a place you can disappear to," Gwyn agreed.
"Yeah, but I'll bet you anything that one of my sisters hunts me down," Owen predicted with a fond laugh. A gentle smile illuminated his face, returned the crinkles to the corners of his eyes. He shook his head again, but this time it was slight, like he was recalling a similar incident. It inspired a smile to crawl across Gwyn's face, too.
"That'd be nice, though. Shouldn't be alone on Christmas."
Owen tipped his head back to rest against the wall, and the corner of his mouth lifted. "I've got you."
"You've got me on a phone," she pointed out dryly, her smile becoming more of a smirk.
"Better than not having you at all."
For a moment, Gwyn's eyes felt exceptionally dry, so much so that they stung. And then she realized that they weren't dry––she was tearing up. She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, took a deep breath, and tried to banish the well of emotion building in her stomach. The statement, though sweet, felt weighted. Not only did it speak to the distance between them, it spoke of the one moment on Isla Nublar where the both of them really thought that Gwyn might die. Her eyes fell shut and her lips mashed together.
"You alright?" Owen asked, concern coloring his voice.
"Yeah. Just… I miss you. Is that weird to say?" she asked, expression screwing up.
"Nah. 'Cause I miss you, too. This week's been… awful and I've just…" he trailed off, sheepishly almost.
"Wanted you here," Gwyn tagged on. She kept her eyes closed, partially because some part of her worried that, maybe, that's not what he'd meant. Because it was what she meant.
When she'd wake up in a cold sweat, she found herself wishing that Owen was there. Someone she could embrace, squeeze tight, and just drop her head against. Alan had been there for the first few days, sure––and his presence had been helpful in its own way. But he was her father. She woke up, now, alone in a house she'd once felt so comfortable in. But now it felt lonely. When Gwyn woke up in the middle of the night, she wanted to be able to turn over and have Owen there. On the opposite side of the bed, in the guest room down the hall, at the kitchen table, on the couch. She found that she didn't care where, really; just so long as she could get to him.
"Yeah. I've wanted you here," Owen agreed. The corners of her mouth twitched a little, but evidently not visibly enough. Because, after a pause, he asked, "You still awake?"
"Yeah. With… my eyes closed it sounds like you're here," Gwyn admitted sheepishly. The admission was immediately followed by a blush, which heated her cheeks madly. No response came from Owen's end. So, cautiously, she cracked her eyes open and found him with a sleepy, but bright grin. She started to laugh––at herself, at his grin––but stifled it with a grimace. "Sorry, I haven't… done the whole relationship thing for a while."
"What're you wincing for, that was the cutest shit I've heard in years!" Owen exclaimed. It was the liveliest he'd sounded and looked since he'd made the call. There was a special little gleam in his eye, and an undying fondness in his smile. It had Gwyn's grimace melting away into something gently complimentary to his expression––cheeks flushed, head dropped to her shoulder, lips curved into a soft up-turn. He sighed, the look on his face falling to mirror hers almost perfectly. For lack of better phrasing, Owen looked a little love-drunk. "God, Gwyn, I…" His mouth hung open for a moment, words hanging on the tip of his tongue. He pursed his lips, like he held what he wanted to say back, though a smile still remained. "I miss you."
Though it was a sentiment already exchanged––and one reiterated––it had Gwyn's lips tipping into something melancholic. "Miss you, too."
On her small phone screen, Owen wiggled down a little, the hood of his sweatshirt bunching up around his neck. He was scooting down in bed, his mismatched pillows peeking into view. He shut his eyes with a sigh. "I wanna try the closed-eyes thing. Just for a moment," he murmured.
A smile bloomed across Gwyn's face. "Alright. I, uh…" she mulled around for something to say, "I got flowers from the museum. Sent them over as a 'get better' soon kind of thing. They're orange, which is nice, 'cause they compliment the color of the walls. Brighten up the place, make it look warmer."
The tension between Owen's brows had disappeared. There was a serene lift to the corners of his mouth. The angle at which his phone was being held shifted, likely with the relaxing of his fingers. "'S nice…"
"Yeah." Gwyn wormed her way back under the covers and curled up on her side. Her eyelids were starting to feel heavy; and the energy to keep them open was close to non-existent. A yawn pulled her mouth wide open. "The colors remind me of sunsets in the Badlands… better than any other sunset in the world; nothing anything in California could ever top."
The corner of Owen's mouth twitched slightly, the only acknowledgement of her sleepy, playful jab. With each blink, Gwyn could feel herself losing the battle with sleep. Eventually, one blink left her eyes completely shut. For the first time in a couple of days, the prospect of falling asleep didn't seem so terrible. Because the house wasn't so quiet anymore. Not with the faint hiss of white-noise coming from Owen's end of the video call. Not with the faint shuffle of fabric that came from him shifting to get comfortable. So, lulled by the presence of someone over a thousand miles away, Gwyn fell asleep––and dreamt of happy possibilities for the future.
Afterword: Sorry for how long it's taken to get this up––since the last update, I've not been feeling particularly great, and my motivation to do much of anything plummeted. But it gave me time to plan out the next couple of chapters, so I know exactly where the last chunk of this part of the story is going. It was fun getting to write the softer side of Gwyn at the end of this chapter; a part not yet fully explored for her!
Review Replies!
WaywardandWanderlust: The departing words with the boys has always been something that I knew I wanted. Because I think it'd be nice for the boys to know that they've really got a support system that understands what they went through. And the Alan hug––I love a good reunion, and that was one of the most fun ones I've ever gotten to write. So much emotion to deal with in that father-daughter duo, given the circumstances. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
BaDWolF89: Thank you for taking the time to read the story! I'm so glad that you've enjoyed it, and are excited for what comes next; hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
MsRosePetal: I've been wanting to get that talk with Claire in for a couple of chapters. Originally it was going to happen at the raptor paddock, but it didn't feel right. I think that Claire probably dealt with a massive onslaught of guilt after the fact. I know that I certainly would have, if I was in her position. So, along with the boys, I thought it would be nice to have those worries addressed, if only for a moment. Alan thanking Owen is a nice big step for the starts of what their relationship is going to be. Because Gwyn is Alan's world, really, and he entrusted part of her safety to a man he barely knew. So now he knows that he can really start to trust Owen; also, writing a grumpy, emotionally compromised Alan sweeping him into a hug was far too fun. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I wholly intend to keep on going with this story. I've got too many ideas, and I love these dorks far too much. Thanks again!
AlchemyWriter: We do, indeed, have about… three years of time to get through before FK begins. I've got some fun stuff planned––important set up for the FK events, some fun relationship stuff with Gwyn and Owen, some OG JP cameos. And we're really gonna bite into Gwyn's opinions on a lot of things. There's a lot she's gonna be asked to talk about, given the state of the world post-JW. And the human cloning is going to be a very interesting subject for her to grapple with. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
kitsunelover300: We'll definitely see the long-term effects of what happened on the island taking effect, soon. As things start to settle down, stuff will really start to kick up. We'll even get a little glimpse at Owen's POV on some stuff. I wanted to get an initial with Alan about everything that happened this chapter, but it seemed too soon. But next chapter we'll get to explore some of that, as well as some stuff with some of our favorite OGs. Gwyn's recovery period is definitely going to be a struggle; because she did come out of the situation with a new confidence, and new information… she's just gotta figure out how to get to all that through the new trauma. We'll see her discussing some of the newly garnered dino info with Alan and the like––and them discussing the 'passing of the torch' moment with the flare. I plan on touching base with characters that just sorta… dropped off the map after the fact, like Lowery and Barry, Zach and Gray. I don't know how involved they'll end up being, but I don't want to just leave them in the dark.
And Owen and Gwyn aren't about to let what they have disappear in the fallout. It's difficult, but thank god for technology; and, y'know… maybe a plane ticket and a trip after the holiday season. There is a chance Zach and Gray may get to meet some of the OG survivors––I'd, personally, love for Gray to get to meet Tim. It just seems… perfectly fitting. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
Lady of Sign: There's no way I could abandon these dinosaur geeks; there's so much more in store for them! There's only a few more chapters in this part of their story, but the next part will be up and running just as soon as this part concludes. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
xenocanaan: I can definitely see, in the proceedings of the inevitable debate of what to do with the island, that Claire meets some of the OG survivors. I can definitely see her meeting the Murphy kids, which would be very interesting, and maybe even Malcolm, too. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
Raider-K: I love to linger in the aftermath of things when I write stories. Because, oftentimes, it's what gets glossed over. But I love examining how people react and adapt in light of that aftermath. Because it changes things. I don't think that, at the top of this story, Gwyn would have been so openly worried about her and Owen parting ways. The emotional and physical exhaustion of their experience really allowed her to be fully vulnerable about it. And all that vulnerability when Alan came rushing in, ugh. Loved to write it. And the airport kiss was a result of me being like 'how do these two love-struck, self-assured dorks deal with needing to part ways?' and 'dramatic airport goodbye kiss immediately jumped to my brain. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
RJNorth: We really do love to torture our characters––but it makes for such great plot devices, and great character development. And I agree about Gwyn wanting and liking to help people through the fall-out. Perhaps, in another life, she might've been a therapist or trauma counselor. But I think, surprisingly, the events of JW really brought out a softer side to her. While JP hardened her, JW softened her up a bit. We'll definitely see some vulnerable conversations with Owen and maybe some Zach and Gray stuff, too. And Lowery! I really want to keep him involved in this story, 'cause I love him. I wanna know he's doing okay (also, heard that he might be coming back for Dominion, which has got me HYPED). And I, too, came to the end of the movie like 'wait… where do Barry and Lowery go?' We… don't get a lot of their stories, and I'd like to know more, so I'll probably touch on that a bit.
I actually do have plans for Gwyn meeting Owen's parents––and I have ideas about his family. The movie not touching on his family life at all definitely gives me full free-range. It's been fun to figure out what his home life was, has been, and is (because that man has not been home for at least five years, and his mother is probably ecstatic). Also, it's been a blast figuring out his sibling life, because he definitely had siblings.
And you feeling this is Gwyn recounting her experience in a book is actually phenomenal––because, believe it or not… writing may be something that Alan suggests she do to help herself recover. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
NicoleR85: It's truly bizarre to me to finally be moving out of the movie events––it's been such a long journey to get here. This chapter focused a lot on Gwyn's first few days back home, getting her feet back on the ground again. But we'll see her a little more firmly settled next chapter, see what home life is like with the media storm, the general troubles of living after a traumatic event. And we'll get some of that form Owen's POV, too. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
Boomer1125: Thank you! I, myself, teared up writing the Alan/Gwyn reunion. I'm in deep with this story, these characters and their interactions get me, and I'm master-minding every move they make. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
msbeku1: I've always been curious as to what Claire's journey post JW was––from the high-functioning park manager to the outspoken activist. I imagine a chunk of her journey was born out of guilt. Because she had a lot of executive power, and it probably felt like none of it did anything, so now she's taking matters into her own hands. And the boys definitely deserved what little closure Gwyn could offer them. Because they're about to endure some really rough waters, and knowing that someone is gonna be there on their side is very helpful. It's not the last we've seen or heard from them; 'cause we gotta know if Gray really is gonna have that badass little scar!
The 'dirty fairy' call back simply had to come back into play. Because it's so indicative of Alan and Gwyn's father-daughter relationship. It's the fondest nickname that he's ever given her, and it serves as a reminder of love. Also, it just shows that Gwyn will forever be his little girl. And Owen and Gwyn are, indeed, separated for the time being, but they're not letting that stop them. To be perfectly honest, the original draft of this story had Owen immediately joining them in Montana (to be fair, I wrote the original plot when I was just coming out of high school, and understood nothing). Then time passed and I went 'what about his family? He's not gonna just overlook them. Also, they're grown ass adults, they've got lives and there's consequences to just dropping everything to move in together.' So, the distance is needed, but it won't last forever. And the kiss in the airport was the purest make-out that anyone ever did see.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
MyCatNala: We love crying over fictional characters; if I could put it on a resumé, I'd have so much experience. I'm glad that the balance of romance and action has worked out! I've really tried to make sure that one doesn't dominate the other, or anything else. I think that a big key component to striking a realistic balance is to make sure one thing doesn't eclipse anything else (from other character relationships, to character traits, to keeping the story moving). And I have a lot of fun finding unique ways to keep that balance in check. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
god of all: Thank you so much! I hope that you enjoyed the chapter!
AmericanNidiot: It certainly is. I've had a lot of friends do long distance, and I've seen it's pitfalls and it's successes. And it's what's necessary for Owen and Gwyn for the moment, so they're gonna have to navigate it carefully. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
Leafnova: Thank you! I hope that you enjoyed the newest chapter!
MageVicky: It does feel like an ending, and it kinda is––the major arc of this part of the story has concluded. We've got a mini arc we're moving through now, and then we start venturing into the stuff leading into FK. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
Guest 1: I mentioned it in an earlier comment, but I'll say it again––movies (and television) don't really like to bask in the aftermath. I do. So I really wanted to give Claire and the boys a chance to bask in it, for lack of a better term. Gwyn has already had to go through the whole 'coming to terms things are gonna be very different' thing after JP happened; so now it's time for her to impart some wisdom on those who haven't. And whenever it comes to Alan, I have to sit there, think of his voice and his expressions and go 'now what would come out of that man's mouth?' Because he is such a defined character. I'd love to talk to Sam Neil about how he worked to characterize Alan. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
CJ/OddBall: Alan and Gwyn, I have to say, are my favorite familial character relationship to write. They've got a certain dynamic that is just… so fun to write. And just you wait till Gwyn is like 'yeah, remember that thing with the flare? I did it too.' Like father, like daughter, indeed… but Alan will very much so have something to say about that. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
Makokam: I definitely could have tagged the hangar scene on to the end of chap. 36, but, quite frankly, it was only partially finished. I didn't have the ending of that scene figured out, and the time I took ended up resulting in a better ending for it than what I'd had planned. But I do think it still worked where it was in the grand scheme of things, and I'm glad that it read okay, too.
I always have fun writing Alan, because Sam Neil developed the character so well, that sitting back to figure out what he'd say and do is a blast. If I think it up, and it doesn't fit in that deadpan of his, or with that wry look on his face, then it doesn't go in.
We'll definitely have more moments where Gwyn's experience can shine through, especially now that she's come to terms with some things. Her confidence is definitely bolstered, and she's starting to settle some of her past grievances with herself. And we'll see some of that stuff taking effect as she has to venture back into the world, and deal with the aftermath––from the media, to the hears, and beyond.
And I'm definitely going to do an overlapping update when the time comes to put up the sequel to this story––post the last chapter of this and the first of the next in the same period, provide a notice that it's up. I've had quite a few sequel stories, and I've learned my lesson with correlating the final chapter of one story, with the start of a new one.
I hope that you enjoyed the chapter, and that all is well with you. Thank you again, and have a great day!
Guest 2: Thank you so much! This story means a lot to me, so I'm happy to know that you've been enjoying it!
Angel JJK: Zach and Gray definitely deserved lots of hugs and reassurance, so I just had to give it to them. And Alan is definitely gently approving of Gwyn and Owen's relationship; and it's gonna be a fun road to watch him build his own relationship with Owen. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!
TheHatterM: I'm so glad that you've enjoyed the story so much! When I set out to write this story (five years ago, hard yike), discussing Gwyn's trauma was something I wanted to focus on. Because it does add a whole new perspective to the story. I wanted to see how someone who'd been through it before would realistically navigate it again. And I think that touching on Owen's trauma is important to; because we all know that he was in the navy. My guess is that he probably saw combat––so he probably has nightmares, too, and excessive heat probably bothers him, and his fight-or-flight mode is highly conditioned. Going forward, there's gonna be even more attention to Owen's trauma, both old and new. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
Briella J: Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
AkariWolfPrincess: I've had to do the whole 'teary airport goodbye' thing for so many people––I've got friends that live far too far away, family in other countries… so I love a good emotional airport goodbye. But Gwyn and Owen won't be separated for too, too long. And that reunion is just gonna be… so good. So sweet. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
And thank you to those that have added this to their follows/favorites; it means a lot!
This chapter felt a little bumpy, because it's, quite literally, a transition chapter. I wanted to address the roughness of the first few days home before we see Gwyn a little more settled. But, next chapter, we'll have some fun OG JP cameos! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, thank you for being patient!
~Mary
