Author's note: Thank you so much for your wonderful support, guys! This story is my everything, and I'm very happy some of you are enjoying it :D

On the morning after the incident, Owen woke up groggy and disoriented, his whole body aching in places he didn't know existed, cuts and bruises on his back from the Pteranodon attack protesting his every move. A few hours of fitful sleep he managed to sink into after tossing and turning for a while left him even more tired somehow, his mind foggy. The pillowcase was scratchy against his cheek, humid air wrapped around him like a thick cloud that smelled faintly of dust.

The small room – the only one they could find – was awash with the sunlight, and he squinted against it as he rolled onto the other side, blinking away the sand that someone seemingly rubbed into his eyes. His gaze slipped past the empty spot next to him as he scanned the room, a brief flash of panic jolting through him.

Claire was curled up in the armchair by the tiny balcony, staring sightlessly outside. There wasn't much to see – just a wall of the building across the street and a few palm trees, but she didn't seem to care. Wrapped in a hotel bathrobe – one of the five items of clothing they owned between them at this point – and with her hair framing her face in thick, heavy waves, she looked tired and small and unfamiliar. Breakable in the ways he couldn't comprehend.

The fact that they ended up in bed together last night in a desperate attempt to block out the events of the previous 24 hours in the only way they could think of didn't surprise Owen. He craved connection and being needed, feeling alive again. He was not, however, clear on where it left them or what the protocol was for the situations like this one. It wasn't just about unwinding for him, but with Claire, he wasn't sure.

"You slept at all?" Owen asked quietly as he approached her, his voice thick and groggy, odd even to his own ears. Claire shook her head without turning to him, her forehead creased slightly, and he couldn't even begin to imagine what must have been going on in her head.

What he thought of as a much needed break only yesterday was starting to feel like an undeserved luxury today. They both needed a decent rest and probably food, and maybe not being in the spotlight for a day or two so they could get their bearings again. In reality, he knew it was too much to ask for, and a part of him hated the anxious energy radiating off of Claire, dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes, and the way her glance would dart toward her phone now and then, her expression a mixture of dread and resignation.

There was a shit storm of an enormous magnitude waiting for them on the other side of the door, and if there was anyone in this world who knew how bad it was going to get in the next few weeks, it was her. And between that, and the fact that she didn't seem to be able to look at him, her gaze skittering restlessly around, he was tempted to barricade them in the goddamn room and not leave this place for at least a month.

With a sigh, Owen crouched down in front of her, his eyes following hers for a moment. From here, he could glimpse a tiny spot between the houses that was the ocean, so bright and impossibly blue in the sun it almost hurt to look at it. There were words rolling on his tongue, promises and reassurances, and everything else he couldn't bring himself to say.

"Claire…" He brushed her hair from her cheek, trailing his fingertip down her face, and when she finally turned to him, her eyes were shiny and her cheeks flushed like she was about to cry. "It's okay, you know?"

"What's okay?" She murmured.

There was no way to tell if he was doing it right, or what 'right' even was – as far as he was concerned, they threw it out the window when they had sex last night, thus taking their already complicated relationship to a whole new level. But he tugged lightly at her hand, and when he did, she unfolded herself and allowed him to pull her toward him, his arms wrapping tightly around her as if to promise that he would never stop catching her. "You don't have to be strong anymore."

She stayed quiet for a long moment, her nose pressed to his cheek and her breath warm on his skin, and then she said, "I don't know how to be anything else."

xoox

Claire hated hospitals.

She couldn't stand the smell of antiseptics and disinfectants, the bright lights and white walls, the impending sense of doom hanging in the air, the constant beeping of the machines, and the intercom announcements that sounded like gurgled nonsense to her ears, making her wonder how anyone ever understood them.

Or how people weren't dropping dead because no one ever did.

She couldn't look at the people in thin hospital robes without feeling guilty, like she was flaunting her health and well-being in front of them, her eyes shifting involuntarily away from them when she passed them in the corridors. It was like the reality was warped in places that congregated large numbers of sick and injured, drained of hope. It scared and unnerved her, and more often than not, she avoided setting her foot in the medical institutions at all costs.

Unless she had no other choice.

She dropped the old copy of Better Homes & Gardens onto the table and rubbed her eyes.

Behind the window that was taking up the whole wall, the uncertain winter sun was peeking cautiously from behind the clouds, colouring the rooftops and crooked branches of the bare trees in orange and pink, the whole world slowly taking shape again, stepping out of the shadows.

Claire bit her lip, purposely keeping her eyes anywhere but on Owen who was lying on a gurney bed, the jagged lines running across the multi-purpose monitor hanging on the wall beside him making her nauseated with worry and fear.

"Family?" The paramedic asked her a few hours ago when she first broke through the crowd that gathered around the crash site outside of the bar just as they were loading Owen, bloodied and unconscious, into an ambulance, its flickering red and blue lights blurred before her eyes.

She stared at him, unable to process the absurdity of the question at once.

What were they, really?

Even a year ago, even when they were practically living together, she wouldn't have been able to define them in any terms that made sense. They never talked about it, too busy fending off hordes of reporters, court hearings, and overwhelming panic that seemed to have filled every crack and crevice crazing through their lives. Their relationship was just there. Was she his girlfriend? A partner in crime? A rebound of sorts after he'd lost his raptors – the closest thing he'd had to a family in years? Frankly, she never gave it much thought, deeming it unnecessary. They were not teenagers, eager to put labels on everything around them. They didn't need to be something or another for it to work.

Not that it did.

Except now, she had to fit in a box, or they wouldn't give her any information, and that was something she couldn't stand the thought of.

"Yes," she nodded. Her eyes darted inside the ambulance to see the other medic fuss over Owen, shielding him from her line of sight. "Living together."

Were.

In the past.

A long time ago.

But there was no one there to catch her on that lie, and so she received a brief update on Owen's condition and was instructed to follow them in her car to the hospital where a stern nurse kept her in the waiting room before kicking her out altogether after he was transferred from the ER to the two-bed ward, telling her to come back during the visiting hours.

Claire was about to protest, but the fight didn't seem worth it. She needed a shower. And coffee. And she also needed to find Owen's insurance and social security card (because she still had copies – she still had the goddamn copies!) and bring them here.

When she returned a while later, feeling more tired than ever before, Owen was still asleep, and the bitter coffee from the vending machine in the hallway threatened to burn through her intestines without having any energizing effect on her whatsoever. She knew he was stable, not unconscious so much as sleeping after they put him on painkillers, but the sight of him – his skin unnaturally pale under the cuts and bruises on his face – lying so still unnerved her anyway, the slow rise and fall of his chest offering little comfort.

She wasn't sure how long had she been just sitting there, staring at the wall, when Owen stirred at last just as she was about to maybe go get herself another cup of something that clearly wasn't Arabica. His eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused for a few long moments.

Claire felt the corners of her mouth tug up ever so slightly, so overcome with relief it made her weak in the knees. She dragged her chair closer to his bed just as his awareness seemed to have clicked into place, ignoring the commotion in the corridor that kept getting louder as the morning wore on.

"Hey."

Owen swallowed with a wince. "Hey." His voice was low and gruff, like talking was too much effort. His gaze darted around before fastening on hers again. "What happened?"

"You tell me," Claire hummed, feeling her lips quiver as she tried to smile, her voice breaking a little. "The official story is that you crashed a motorcycle into a tree."

This took a few more seconds to sink in. And then he grimaced. "Yeah… it didn't sound like a good idea then, either."

She sighed and shook her head, regarding him sternly now that he didn't seem to be in imminent danger of actually dying and she was oh so tempted to unplug his monitors and whatever he was attached to for scaring the living hell out of her. And all for what? "Then why on Earth-"

He closed his eyes for a long moment. "To make all of the other things go away."

"Jesus, Owen."

He turned to her, two butterfly stitches on his forehead strikingly white on his skin. "How bad is it?"

"A concussion, two cracked ribs, and a dislocated shoulder," she repeated the things the nurse had told her when she came back. Nothing to worry about, as so she'd been promised. He still looked like someone threw him into a meat processor first and then ran him over with a truck for good measure, though.

"Feels worse," he admitted with a small smirk.

"Looks worse, too," she assured him, leaning slightly forward on her elbows. His whole left cheek was one big bruise and his lower lip was cracked, a thin line of dried blood crossing it right in the middle. His knuckles were scabbed too, and for once, Claire was glad she couldn't see the rest of the damage under his gown. "What were you thinking?" She couldn't help but demand. "And where did you find a motorcycle?"

"I borrowed it," he told her. "There was a guy at the bar…"

"Of course, you did," Claire muttered.

"You aren't really here, are you?" He croaked, studying her closely, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, piercing blue in the fluorescent overhead light.

Puzzled, Claire blinked, at a loss for words by the second. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His lips quirked into something resembling a smile. "You're naked. It's too good to be real."

She arched an eyebrow and pointedly looked down at her pale blue sweater with an excessively large collar that was meant to double as a scarf. Hardly the sexiest outfit. Probably the second un-sexiest thing after a flour sack.

She glanced up at his IV bag. "What did they put you on?"

Owen sighed wearily. "Something good, apparently."

His voice dropped, his eyelids growing heavy, and now that the worst was behind them and he was out of the woods, she suddenly had no idea what to do. Was she supposed to stay? To leave? Lying to his doctor when she didn't really have a choice didn't mean she had any moral right to be here. Wasn't sure she wanted to have it, either. The last time she allowed herself the luxury of going for what she craved, it didn't end well for either of them.

"You should rest," Claire said, all business – because what else was there to say? – feeling out of place, the room seemingly shrinking around them until it was the size of a shoebox. The second bed, the one closer to the door, was empty, but now she almost wished it wasn't just the two of them in the small space crowded with hurt and unsaid words.

She started to get up, pushing herself off the chair, but Owen's hand reached for hers, curling around her wrist, warm and familiar.

An old memory popped up in her mind, about one morning a long time ago when they were lying in bed because neither of them felt like getting up, talking about nothing in particular. She pressed her palm to his to see how much bigger his hand was compared to hers, how much darker his skin seemed from all the sun he never shied away from. His touch felt warm but different in texture, softer than she'd have imagined.

"Wanted to make sure you were real," he said when their eyes met, his thumb running absently over the inside of her wrist, and Claire's pulse tripped over itself under his touch, and she knew he couldn't have possibly missed it. "'Cause I had this dream before. It never ends the way I want."

This situation was hardly a laughing matter, but she couldn't help letting out an amused snort. "This," she glanced around, "is what you dream about?"

"You," he shook his head so subtly she was half certain she imagined it. "But you're always gone when I wake up."

That was drugs talking, she told herself. And god only knew how much alcohol was still coursing through his system. And it was stupid and sentimental, and not something that would normally had any effect on her, whatever the circumstances – Claire wasn't sure he even knew what was going on, which was probably for the best. But everything inside her went still even after his hand dropped on the blanket again.

"Try not to do anything stupid again, at least while you're here," she warned him, her voice high-pitched and unnaturally-sounding even to her own ears, too loud for this small room and its white walls and the cold day outside the window. She almost thought her words would shatter the glass, and the unforgiving December air would rush in and freeze the space between them.

"Are you gonna come back?" Owen asked in a whoosh of breath as she finally stood up.

Claire hesitated, her hand frozen over her jacket draped over the back of her chair in mid-reach.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

xoox

To say that Owen had a very vague recollection of what had happened the previous night would be an understatement.

He remembered leaving the Mitchells' house, his whole being a jumble of mixed emotions fueled by his encounter with Claire. He hated her and needed her, resented her and knew that there was nothing she could do that he wouldn't forgive. And more than anything, he missed her so bad it hurt to the point he could barely stand it. He despised and pitied himself for feeling that way, trapped in the kind of hell there was no escape from while a part of him wanted to stay in it for good, if only because feeling something was better than feeling nothing at all.

Then there was a bar, he knew that much. He could recall his first shot of tequila, and the second. The next half a dozen were a blur until sharp pain inside him reduced to a dull throb, the edges of reality around him smooth and no longer jagged. He remembered imagining calling her, which made sense, and then hearing her voice in his ear, which didn't.

The night was quiet, the sky jet-black above his head when he tumbled into a parking lot, chilly air nipping at his cheeks. She told him not to move, and he was happy to comply, reveling in Claire's voice washing over him. And then there was someone who he might have seen inside the bar talking about his pal's Harley and moving in straight lines in the dark…

And then Claire again, all soft voice and worried eyes, telling him something that didn't quite stick, and for a moment, he was overcome with the panic because everything was wrong and there were dark spots dancing before his eyes and his head was about to explode…

Afterwards, he'd been in and out of it most of the day, barely registering a nurse that would pop up seemingly out of nowhere to check his vitals and stick more needles into him, but every time Owen tried to ask her something, his mouth wouldn't cooperate, his tongue too big and too heavy to be of any use. He was grateful for the small bits and pieces of memories flashing through his mind, but even more so for the deep black oblivion where he didn't have to feel the ache that went way beyond the physical pain.

The fog had finally lifted by nightfall, the room coming into proper focus around him, which was a blessing in disguise because it was impossible to ignore the pulsing pain in every part of his body now that he knew where to look for it.

A nurse in her early 50's with a cross face and knitted eyebrows came in again, muttering something about his girlfriend who was apparently calling the hospital nonstop, and there was no universe in which that made sense.

Queasy and nauseous, Owen asked for a glass of water, and then sweet-talked her into giving him his phone back, which required a bit more time and energy than he could spare, but he managed. She relented eventually, threatening to take it away for good if he short-circuited something (even though they both knew that if that were even a remote possibility, his phone would be taking a dive out the window right now).

The nurse walked out of his room with a huff, leaving him to his devices until the next check-up, and he closed his eyes and counted in his mind until the ringing in his ears ceased, drained by a three-minute conversation as if it was a 12-mile marathon.

His left shoulder was messed up, sharp pain shooting through it and into his back whenever Owen so much as shifted, rendering his whole left arm useless. It had been a while since he had dislocated anything, but the familiar dread of having to treat a part of his body like it was made of porcelain didn't take long to settle in.

He had no one to call around here, certainly not at the time of the night, and as he scrolled through his contacts, taking mental note to contact his boss first thing in the morning (if he didn't forget about it by then), it struck him how isolated he'd become lately. Funny how it wasn't something one would usually ponder unless they were in a situation like this.

His finger hovered over Claire's name, his mind trying to separate illusion from reality and failing shamelessly, plagued by the wishful thinking and everything he wanted so desperately to be true.

They don't serve beer here, Owen texted her, his thumb moving over the keyboard as if on the will of its own. Can u believe it?

If he'd dreamed up the whole thing from earlier, he was screwed. The silver lining here was that it wouldn't be that big a stretch to blame it on his concussion and disorientation and maybe some other crap he could probably pull out of his warden the next time she stopped by to poke and prod at him.

Despite the late hour, the answer came a minute later.

You wouldn't say! Maybe better luck with tequila? They do have a whole lot of tiny cups everywhere that can double as shot glasses.

Owen's lips quirked, and then he winced when something as simple as that nearly split his head in half.

Hard to read your tone all the way from here, but r u making fun of me? He sent next.

Me? Never! Claire responded without hesitation, and he could oh so clearly see her mock-insulted face, jaw dropped and eyes disbelieving at such a blatant accusation. And then, How are you feeling, really?

Like someone punched me in the brain, Owen admitted honestly.

After the stunt you pulled last night, the jury is still out on whether you even have one.

U r just jealous cuz ur bed doesn't have a remote control, he typed back, snorting.

The screen lit up mere seconds later. Are you even allowed to operate heavy machinery with a head injury?

It's not that heavy, he protested, all righteous indignation. Come back, he wanted to say. Have you really been here? Is this real? Nothing seemed the way it used to be only yesterday, but whatever this was, it was a distraction that made him think of something other than the fact that if he took a deep breath, his ribs would probably puncture his lungs, and for that, Owen was grateful.

I was talking about your brain, Claire replied.

He fell asleep mid-text, lulled by the soft hum of the monitor above his head and the knowledge that at least one good thing came out of nearly having his skull cracked open.

xoox

Claire came to see him the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. She read to him from the magazines she'd pick up in the waiting room - because he was not advised to do that on his own on account of his concussion, or watch TV, for that matter - until he'd beg her to stop, half-laughing and half-mortified by the contents of Vogue and Cosmopolitan.

Sometimes, they'd talk – about her job, and his, and the hospital food that tasted like cardboard bathed in sauce, and the films he'd seen, and the books she'd read, artfully dancing around the only subject that neither dared to approach.

Owen was weak and woozy, tiring easily and slipping into sleep mid-sentence for hours at a time. The cuts on his face were healing fast but the bruises still lingered, turning purple and yellow around the edges. Owen claimed it didn't hurt, but they both knew better than that.

She couldn't stand watching him sleep, his exposed vulnerability splintering her heart, making it practically burst with uneasiness. This was when Claire would go to a Starbucks across the street to catch a breath, not quite certain of what the hell was happening here. She'd call Karen to clear her mind, or stop by the office even though she was not due to be back for another week. It was a relief to have her attention focused on something other than the hospital and the heaviness with which it pressed down on her.

"Why are you doing this?" Owen asked her one afternoon several days later while she was reading the dinner options aloud to him – apparently, he could choose from a few equally unappealing items and she was adamant to find the least gross food they served here.

"Because you look cross-eyed when you do it," she scoffed. "How does the roast sound?"

"No, Claire, why are you here?"

She lowered the menu down to find Owen watch her quizzically, feeling oddly exposed without a piece of laminated paper and empty words between them.

He was half-sitting on the bed, its backrest lifted to accommodate him. Normally, Claire was the one who tended to read between the lines, but right now, there seemed to be lines between the lines between the lines, and she was lost. It had been too long and she must've forgotten how goddamn good he could be at loading his words with a hundred layers of meaning and leaving her with no clue as to how she was supposed to make sense of them.

"I mean, you don't have to do it. Especially considering…" He trailed off.

She stared back at him for a long moment without breaking the eye contact, turning his words in her head like the Rubik's Cube until they aligned properly.

"Remember the hotel in San Jose?" She asked.

His face scrunched in confusion. "Water stains on the walls and pigeon-sized mosquitos? I'd love to say no, but…" He chuckled and shook his head.

"You took a really good care of me there. The burns on my palm, the blisters – I didn't even notice how bad they were." She shrugged as if it explained everything, which it probably didn't.

"So now I'm your charity case?" Owen quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You didn't need me to take care of you," he said after a few moments had passed. "Not then. Not ever."

She took in a shaky breath, struggling not to look away. "Funny. I can't remember when I didn't not need it." Her lips curved into a ghost of smile, and she pushed back from his bed. "You hungry? There's a vending machine in the hall that has an amazing selection of Slim Jims."

"Claire… Wait." He made no attempt to reach for her, his hands closed around fistfuls of a blanket on his lap instead, and he huffed a breath through his nose. "About that night, when I came by-"

"Don't," she stopped him. If he wanted to have a second round of their screaming match, she might as well just up and leave, but even knowing that she could easily walk away and there'd be nothing Owen would be able to do about it felt like a small consolation. The situation still was like an open wound that everyone ignored, thus making the healing all the more impossible.

"No, it's not that. I, ah… I wanted to apologize." He said as he watched her closely, transfixed by the green of her eyes, her freckles brighter than the sun on her suddenly pale skin, the wisps of her red hair that escaped her ponytail that were framing her face. "There were things I should've never said. You were right. I couldn't… can't possibly know what it was like for you." Owen ran a hand down his face, feeling the scratchy beard with his palm. "It caught me by surprise – which, I know, is the worst excuse in the book. You did what you had to do. I just… I really hate…"

"Me?" Her direct look was unnerving.

He exhaled sharply, ignoring the way it resonated in his whole body, the faint echo of pain flashing in his ribs, his back, almost snagging his attention away – and Owen was willing to let it do it, to allow himself to focus on something less stiffening than this moment between them. "No, of course, not." A corner of his mouth twisted into a not-quite-a-smile and he looked away from Claire and out the window behind which the sky was grey and heavy with a promise of snow, colouring the world in faded pastels. "I wasn't here when you needed me the most, and I'll never forgive myself for it."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod slowly, although whether she was agreeing with him or merely acknowledging the fact that she'd heard him Owen couldn't tell.

"I'm not trying to making about me, Claire, I swear," he said, turning to her again. He swallowed as the mother of all headaches made home behind his eyes, pulsing into the back of his skull. The goddamn side effect of the past few days of his life. "I don't hate you. I could never hate you even if I wanted to." He grimaced a little. "I guess what I'm trying to say, in a very charming manner, is that I'm sorry. For everything. And if you ever need to talk or anything…"

She stayed quiet for a very long moments, before finally saying, "You know, I always thought that if it could work with anyone, it would be with you."

xoox

On New Year's Eve, Owen's temperature suddenly skyrocketed, catching them unawares and making the doctors suspect pneumonia. The fever, so bad Claire thought he'd burn through the bed, left him weak and barely coherent, trapping him in the nightmares whenever he'd slip into the uneasy, drugs-induced slumber.

She was kicked out of his room to wear out a patch of linoleum in the corridor, a snake of worry coiling in her stomach, while the medical personnel drew his blood for tests and pumped him with antibiotics to knock down his fever to a manageable level. In the end, it turned out being a minor infection, amplified by his weakened condition, and when the nurse told her that, Claire thought she was going to crumble with relief.

She stayed with him until way past midnight despite the protests of his doctor, a serious, no-nonsense man with a bushy moustache whose stubbornness almost matched her own, watching the colour of Owen's cheeks slowly return to normal as he slept while the fireworks lit up the roofs outside the window in green and red and golden.

It was the sound of explosions in the sky that awoke him a while later, his gaze still glazed over, but his cheeks no longer crimson with fever. "What's with the face?" Owen asked her wearily, officering Claire a weak smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Did someone die?"

And with that, she pressed her forehead to the back of his hand clasped in hers and cried.

On the 2nd of January, the Mitchells returned from Detroit, crowding Owen's room at all hours of the day, bombing them both with questions and news and making it hard for Claire to avoid their curious looks even though they never asked anything directly. Instead, the boys told them that Scott had a Jacuzzi in his new house and a new stereo system in the living room, but the location of the place sucked, and Karen only shrugged at that. Grandma and Grandpa Mitchell were very generous with the presents, and both Zach and Gray shamelessly played the 'children of the divorce' card, apparently finding their true calling for the next few years.

Claire took this as her cue to step back and stop spending every waking hour of her day in this white mausoleum and living off gross sandwiches from the vending machines. Honestly, if she never tasted anything of that kind ever again, it'd still be too soon.

Owen texted her. A lot. Sometimes, he was sharing anecdotes about the exciting hospital life and the things he'd overseen or overheard in the hallway, other times begging her to come save him from the overly enthusiastic kids. He was getting better fast, her ribs had healed and his face was no longer looking like someone used it as a punching bag. Which, naturally, made him restless, leaving him wandering around his floor and chatting up his fellow patients – something she couldn't wrap her mind around.

She replied in monosyllabic words, blatantly lying about being swamped with work, unable to explain even to herself why she was doing it. Nothing had happened between them, save for the unspoken truce that smoothed out the rocky terrain of their undefined relationship. Yet, the appearance of her family somehow burst the bubble they'd been living in for the past week, and she didn't know why it was making her simultaneously relieved and wistful.

However, when Owen was finally released, it was Claire who showed up at the hospital with a bag of spare clothes for him and an offer to drive him home.

"You don't have to do it," Owen said as he walked out of the bathroom, looking slightly more normal than he did in the past ten days, albeit still weary around the edges.

He needed to wear a sling around his injured shoulder that still was a little sore, and Claire helped him fix it, straightening it behind his neck and snapping the clip into place.

"Would you rather Sheryl do it?" She asked nonchalantly, pointedly tugging at the strap as if to make sure it would hold and not meeting his eyes. "She offered."

"Sharon," Owen corrected her, not without amusement.

"Right," she said flatly, levelling him with a chilly glare.

Sharon was a preppy twenty-something that worked evenings at the shelter, hers and Owen's shifts often overlapping apparently. She'd stopped by a couple of times, always when he was asleep, offering to bring cookies-coffee-whatever and setting Claire's teeth on edge with her not so subtle interest. It was below her to ask Owen directly if there was anything going on between him and the girl, and the fact that she had no right to care about the answer, whatever it was, was hanging over her like a stormy cloud.

"If I didn't know any better-" Owen started, his eyes crinkling with barely contained laughter.

"We're still at the hospital, Owen." Claire smiled brightly at him and patted him on the chest before stepping back. "Don't make me put you on life support."

xoox

His house was warm. Someone – Claire, he suspected – turned up the heating before bringing him over. The relief of being back and in his element again almost left him aching. As someone whose life had been a nonstop chaos for the past decade and a half, Owen found the change of his newly established routine surprisingly unsettling, the limitations of the hospital making him all but climb walls from restlessness and unease.

If only it wasn't his own stupidity that got him there in the first place…

Claire checked the thermostat and turned to him, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Well, looks like you're all set," she announced. "Should I return this to Gray?"

"Huh?" He blinked and focused on a house key in her hand. "Sure. Of course."

She nodded and put it in her pocket. "Okay, then…"

"Can I get you something? Coffee, maybe?"

And there it was again, the smile she wasn't able to hold back. "I appreciate the offer, but I think I respect myself too much to ever touch the concoction you generously call coffee again."

Owen smirked. "Wakes you right up."

"Burns right through you," Claire scoffed, rolling her eyes. In the early afternoon light streaming through the windows framing the front door, she looked radiant, her cheeks flushed from the brief walk from the car to the doorstep. And then she drew in a breath and straightened her back, somehow more detached and composed by the moment. In control. "Rest," she instructed. "And if you feel dizzy and nauseous again-"

She grabbed hold of the bag in his hand – the one that he was adamant to carry from the car on the grounds of not being a 'complete invalid, Claire!' – and pulled at it to help him put it down or something else equally ridiculous, but Owen didn't let go of it. "Claire, stop. I'm not dying. I've had a concussion before."

"Yeah, well… that explains a lot," she noted dryly and he hummed under his breath, and for a few long moments, they simply looked at one another in silence.

"Thanks." Owen said at last. His voice dropping, not sounding amused anymore. "I mean, I don't even know how to thank you. For everything you've done… in this past week and... if there's anything, I mean… I don't know what I would've-"

His earnestness made her throat close up. The fact that they were so painfully undefined in their situation, teetering on a brink and flailing their arms as they danced around it, blindfolded, was disconcerting. Her stomach churning, Claire lifted her chin, suddenly feeling lightheaded and hoping it wasn't showing. "Just do me a favor. The next time something stupid pops up in your mind – reconsider."

She gave the bag one last tug, but so did he at the same time, pulling her toward him - or maybe pulling himself toward her, it was damn hard to tell - and the next thing she knew, his lips were pressed to hers, and she was drowning.

The shock of his mouth moving against hers, soft and warm and familiar, caught her momentarily off guard, her mind flooded with incoherent surprise and panic – not over the fact that he was kissing her, but because she was relieved it happened. And when he began to pull away, quite possibly misreading her reaction, she gripped the front of his jacket, drawing him down again, closer. A low growl formed in the back of his throat, and her lips parted willingly.

His arm still trapped between them, Owen dropped the bag at their feet and slid his good hand up her shoulder and into her hair, braiding his fingers through it, cupping the back of her head as his tongue darted between her teeth. She tasted of peaches, and sugar, and winter, and Claire, and maybe it was the right time to call an ambulance again because he was indeed feeling fucking dizzy, his blood on fire.

"You were saying?" He murmured when she broke away from him, panting and flustered, her fingers clutching at his overcoat.

"Owen, I should-" She gulped for air, her eyes glassy.

"Stay." He brushed a kiss to her temple, breathing her, his heart boom-boom-booming against his ribs and threatening to undo the careful attempts of the medical personnel at putting him back together piece by piece. "Don't go."

Claire pulled at his collar until their foreheads were pressed together, her eyes locked with his and her breath coming out in short, raspy puffs. "I should go get my phone from the car."

Owen refused to go to bed on account of having just been trapped in one for 'more than humanly endurable', ignoring her tight-lipped expression and the way she was glaring daggers at him, probably waiting for him to drop dead from unpacking his dirty clothes and starting a pot of coffee. In the end, as a compromise, he found himself stretched out on the couch in the living room, perched precariously on the edge of it with Claire snuggled between him and the cushions, his good arm wrapped around her and their lips engaged in slow, tender kisses.

"Are you really back?" Claire whispered.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead, his fingers trailing slowly up and down her arm. "Feels real enough to me."

"No, I mean… if you're going to leave again in a week-" She was tracing a button on his shirt with her fingertips, purposely looking straight ahead, very aware all of a sudden of a dull thudding of his heart beneath her palm, his energy almost palpable. So alive.

"I won't," Owen said, letting out a long exhale. "I needed to get it out of my system, see what I've been missing since I quit. See if it was worth it." There was an edge to his words, although whether it was bitter or rueful, even he wasn't sure. "But I really am back now."

At that, Claire turned her head up, weighing the words in her head before they came tumbling out of her mouth. She swallowed, uncertain and antsy, wishing she didn't have to ask. "And you're okay with…" Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she watched him with a mixture of concern and anticipation.

It took her words a moment or two to click. "Yeah." He brushed her hair back from her face. "Yeah, I am. Are you?"

That was not something she thought about a lot, choosing to suppress her feelings and lock them up in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart where neither she, nor anyone else would ever see them. Where she hoped they would find peace, probably long before she did. Claire was not sorry for making the decision about the baby, even though she did wonder now and then. What she did regret was having to face it at all. Inevitability didn't make it any less painful, scratching at her guts whenever she'd so much as take the wrong step and venture into the barren land of 'what if'.

They met in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and maybe under different circumstances, and if their edges weren't so sharp, tearing at one another, and if the stars were aligned in a better way, it could have actually worked out on the first try. What happened was that they did the best they could with what they had, Claire wanted to believe that much, even if the end result all but destroyed them both.

She nodded and settled back down, relaxing into Owen, his shirt soft under her cheek.

"Can I ask you something?" He started after a while, playing absently with her hair splattered across her back. Another nod. "About the baby… How did it happen? I mean, when did we…"

"Ah, that time when you came by to pick up your stuff. After you've already moved out."

When she asked him for some time to think everything over, he packed up his bag the very same day despite her offer to stay until he found a place of his own, choosing to bunk over with someone from work. Their relationship had been rather strained already, although, despite the initial relief over not having to wade through the heavy silences that hung between them, she couldn't help but feel like he couldn't get away from her fast enough, a painful pang resonating deep inside her at the thought.

He came back the following Saturday for everything he didn't take the first time around, mostly some books and DVDs, the forgotten toiletries. Except instead of leaving, he kissed Claire with so much hunger it all but broke her in half. And just liked that, the afternoon turned into the evening that turned into the night as they tried to lose themselves in one another and fill the bottomless void in the only way that made sense to them at the time.

"Really?"

She could swear she heard his eyebrows arch. They never quite acknowledged that day, as if stopping by for 10 minutes and not leaving until the next morning was ow it meant to happen from the start. For a while, she thought of it as some sort of closure, until one day, even before taking the test, she became acutely aware of a tiny wink of new life inside her.

"Mm-hm."

Claire told him more then, everything she could bear to recount, some of the memories smudged from time and her efforts to scrub them out of her mind. It didn't sting as much as it did at first anymore, the whole experience starting to feel more like a scar that would let itself be known with the change of the weather instead of throbbing nonstop. Although the words still lodged uncomfortably in her throat as she spoke, refusing to come out, and she knew he could hear it.

"Did you really think I'd never come back?" Owen asked softly, tracing soothing circles on her back. It was gnawing at him more than anything else. Somehow, knowing that he'd given her this little reason to trust him hurt more than taking a goddamn bullet.

"I don't know," she admitted honestly, wriggling in his embrace to press her face into his neck, feeling his rapid pulse against her forehead.

At the time, either answer was equally unbearable. She couldn't stand thinking of never seeing him again, but didn't dare to wait for his return, suspended in a weird limbo of denial and deliberate isolation, barely ever allowing herself the luxury of hoping for something better, something that lay on the other side of a vast black nothingness her life had turned into.

Owen was watching her, she could feel it, her skin prickling with the static under his gaze. Could feel the questions rolling around in his head, too. A total mess…

"So, where does it leave us?" He murmured.

"Right where we started, I guess." If there was any other answer, she didn't know it.

After that, Claire asked him about where he'd been, and he told her about the base at the Gulf – scorching hot air, white sand, the sun so bright and the sea so blue they didn't seem real. Falling into the old routine was easy, like stepping into the old shoes and knowing they wouldn't leave blisters. It was, perhaps, the only post-incident thing that made him feel stable and grounded, and not floating thirty feet above the ground.

It didn't feel entirely right though, like a good copy that was almost identical to the original, except the depth and the substance were missing. But when Claire asked why, he brushed it off, blaming it on the park and his inability to snap back into his old lifestyle as easily as he'd hoped he would.

He never told her about trying to call her – about a hundred times – punching in the number but never allowing the calls to go through.

xoox

"Are you sure you don't have anything five sizes smaller?"

When Claire stepped out of the bathroom dressed in his shirt and sweatpants that she had to roll down a few times to make sure they wouldn't slide down her hips, Owen had already changed into his sleepwear and was now closing the curtains in the bedroom to block out the light of a streetlamp outside. A wide grin spread across his face when he turned to her. He plopped down onto the edge of the bed and pulled Claire toward him by the strings of the sweatpants until she was standing between his parted knees.

"You look good," he assured her, placing his hands on her waist and looking suspiciously like a kid in a toy store, what with the coy grin and undisclosed glee in his eyes.

She hummed and peered down at him, sizing him up. "You don't really need constant observation, do you?"

"There's only one way to find out." He tugged her closer and pressed his lips to her stomach through the shirt, the worn fabric soft against his skin, never breaking the eye contact. "What if I… hemorrhage in my sleep?"

There was a hint of accusation in her eyes, but she didn't stop him when he kissed her belly again, and his eyes crinkled with amusement over her not quite displeasure.

"Owen…" she started with a warning just the same as his thumbs started drawing slow circles on her sides.

"Hey," he bunched her shirt with his hands, snagging her attention. "Nothing's gonna happen that you don't wanna happen, okay?" His expression turned serious. "I just want you here."

Claire sighed after a moment and leaned down, cupping his face in her palms and kissing him quickly on the minty lips. "Get in bed, Romeo."

Several hours later, Owen woke up to the sound of her weeping quietly in her sleep. At first, he thought it was an echo of his own dream until he registered a changed pattern of her breathing, a slight tremor of her body next to his. It must have been what awoke him in the first place. Wouldn't be the first time.

Alarmed, Owen touched her shoulder. "Claire?" He scooted closer to her, brushing the strands of her hair that escaped a ponytail she tied at the nape of her neck from her face. "Claire…" It used to happen a lot in the first few weeks after the park, the memories often not violent enough to yank her out of her slumber, keeping her hostage in a place where there was no escape from.

"Shh," he whispered against her temple. "It's okay."

She awoke slowly, blinking sleepily in the dark, her breathing short and uneven. "Owen?"

"You were crying," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry…" Claire started, wiping her cheek with her palm, surprised to find it wet.

"S'over." Owen pressed his lips to her cheekbone, kissing away the tangy salt of her tears. He trailed his way to the corner of her mouth, murmuring words of comfort between the pecks until she calmed, and when Claire turned her face up, he took it as an invitation to kiss her fully on her lips, swallowing her soft sigh.

She wiggled around, shifting until she was stretched beneath him. Her hands slipped into the collar of his shirt and around his neck, fingers gripping the hairs on the back of his head, her back arched to press closer to him. Owen's hand slid under the hem of her shirt, and the touch of his palm to her ribs sent a ripple of shiver through her body, a low whimper rising in her throat.

"Owen…"

"It's okay," he promised her.

"You're hurt." Claire swallowed, hard, her heart pulsing in her throat.

He nuzzled her cheek, his breath hot on her skin. "Need you," he rasped, his awareness tunneling momentarily, the world falling back around them.

She helped him take off his shirt and allowed him to pull hers off over her head, discarding them to the floor as their mouths clashed against one another once again, his low growl vibrating into Claire, leaving her trembling all over. Her fingers skimmed over his chest, lips curling at the sound of his sharp inhale. Rising and swelling beneath him, she dragged her nails along his skin, her fingers digging into his flesh. Owen stiffened, a string of muttered curses falling from his lips.

"Sorry," she murmured, loosening her grip. She brushed a tentative kiss to his shoulder spattered with bruises that were yet to fade, to the pulse point in the crook of his neck. "Sorry."

A hand under her chin, Owen turned her face to him, claiming her lips against, deeper, longer, slower, savoring the taste and the feel of her, eager and willing and desperate to devour her whole.

"God, you're so beautiful," he breathed out against her collarbone, peppering his way down her body with slow, deliberate kisses, searing each and every single one of them into her skin as his fingers were tugging and pulling at her pants in haste and impatience, his boxer shorts long gone, an unwanted barrier.

Claire's eyes fluttered closed, hands clutching the sheets, hips moving ever so slightly in sync with his quest, suspended in the tidal rise of pleasure surging through her in scalding waves. The touch of his mouth and his stubble to the tender, silky skin between her hipbones ripped a moan of protest through her. Not enough. Never enough…

And then it was all gone, leaving her feel cheated. Her eyes flew wide open to find Owen hovering over her, his gaze dark, pupils blown with want. Asking for permission. She pushed up from the pillows, reaching for him with her whole body. Her arm snaked around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips, taking him in in one long slide, her gasp of shock morphing into his groan. A perfect fit, Owen used to joke, but she didn't feel like laughing now, holding on to him, skin slick beneath her fingers, their breaths mingling, the memory of the flesh stronger than the one of the mind.

He lowered her back into the sheets, thoughts stuttering, sensory overload threatening to push his whole being into oblivion. Home. He was home at last. Face pressed into her neck, he nudged his hips into a luscious rock, setting into the right rhythm after a few crazy collisions. She didn't last, falling apart around him, a sweet whimper of release zinging through him, her fingers buried in his hair, digging into his back, leaving long scratch marks on his skin. And before he knew it, the delicious squeeze and the aftershocks contracting around him were ripping fire up and through him, mixed with an overwhelming sense of possession.

Good. So very good…

"If you hurt yourself, I'm going to kill you," Claire informed him, slowly regaining her ability to form coherent thoughts again.

She was curled up against him, half draped over his chest, careful not to put too much pressure on anything that had been injured in the accident. Owen shifted and raised his head to kiss the top of her head, the heat of his body making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. "Worth it," he mumbled against her skin.

"Missed you." Her fingers weaver through his, squeezing his hand, her thumb running over his knuckles.

He let out a long breath, his body deflating to wrap completely around hers, nose rubbing into her back on her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin mixed with the delicate notes of her shampoo and sex and everything that was Claire. "Mmm, you wouldn't say."

"It tickles," she giggled, but made no attempt to move away, sinking instead into him with a content sigh.

"Missed you, too." Absently, he pulled the hair tie from her hair, releasing it, looping his fingers through soft curls, listening to her breathing become slower and deeper, his own mind liquefied. It was hard to imagine now that they'd gone without this for as long as they had. Unfathomable. His palm skittered across her belly, lips pressed to her temple.

There was an edge of desperation to this, to them, reminding him too much of the times when they would look for solace in each other because it didn't exist anywhere ease, until they ripped one another apart completely, the pieces too small and too scattered to put them back together. But Owen pushed his worries back, too happy and elated to allow himself to think of anything but this moment and Claire dozing off next to him, tucked into the curve of his body. Not yet.

xoox

When Owen returned home after his very first tour with the NAVY, there was a certain degree of surrealism to the world. Nothing was wrong with it, per se, but nothing was right, either. Kind of like the way one would feel in Disneyland – pretend all you want that there was Sleeping Beauty in that pink castle and Mickey Mouse was an actual giant mouse and not a person in a costume, but it didn't make any of it any more real.

He'd walk down the street and feel like he was stuck in Magic Kingdom – sheltered and protected from the horrors he'd just been exposed to, even if he was anything but.

Right now, it wasn't quite the same. Not really. But his body felt battered in a frighteningly familiar way, and the fact that this was the third morning in a row that Claire woke up in his bed added another layer of dubiousness to his life.

"Claire, phone!" Owen poked his head into the steam-filled bathroom, her shrieking iPhone in his hand.

"Can you take it?" Her voice, muffled behind the shower curtain, broke through the sound of the running water. "Tell them I'll call them back?"

When Claire came down to the kitchen, wrapped in one of his loose plaid shirts and still toweling off her hair, Owen was perched on one of the two mismatched bar stools – something he needed to fix but didn't have time to.

"Hey, where do you keep the hair drier?" She asked lightly. And then her smile, sunny and bright, dimmed when she took in his grim expression, the tight set of his jaw. She lowered her hand. "What happened?"

Slowly, Owen set her phone on the counter, staring at it with a mixture of contempt and dismay. "Aaron-something called," he said calmly, his voice oddly detached. "They need you to come by the office to sign the transfer papers." He looked up slowly, his face an emotionless mask. "So they could book the tickets and arrange your move."

She froze as the scattered, panicky thoughts started to bump around her head. "Owen…"

"Were you planning on telling me?" He asked almost casually, like they were talking about the weather. Sure, honey, don't forget the umbrella. It might rain today. "Or would've you just sent me a post card from Boston? You know, after the fact?"

Her shoulders sagged defiantly, a resigned breath escaping her chest. "Don't say that. Can I explain?"

He slid off the stool and brushed past her without so much as a second glance her way, grabbing his car keys from the desk on his way to the door. "I gotta go to work. Lock up when you leave."

"Owen, come on," Claire started helplessly, but he was didn't even pause, gone before she could say another word.

To be continued...

A/N: I hope you're having as much as me! Reviews are always much appreciated :D