FIC: For Survival (Jurassic World, Claire Dearing/Owen Grady, PG-13)
TITLE: For Survival
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: Jurassic World
PAIRING: Claire Dearing/Owen Grady
SUMMARY: Post-film, Claire deals with her new place in life...and her new place in Grady’s life.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for gaialux’s 2015 Yuletide. Thanks so much to Carla for the beta.
Claire slept fretfully on the ship back to the mainland, curled up on Grady’s chest, his arms around her as the boat rocked on the waves. She dreamed of fire: the heat of the flare sending sparks around her, the burning in her legs and lungs as she ran.
She woke to the sound of rain on the ship’s deck, and that seemed impossible. She looked past the turbulent, grey sea to the mainland, miles away. She felt like an immigrant coming to America; this would be a new world for her.
Grady’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, but his arms around her were steel enough that she knew he wasn’t all the way asleep.
Claire pressed her face against his shirt.
“You smell like gasoline,” she said, and he smiled.
***
There was a swarm of reporters as they came off the gangway, but they were kept at bay by gates and police. Claire kept her head down, and Grady kept his arm around her, separating her from the harsh flash of hundreds of cameras as best he could.
Karen and the boys took a cab to the airport, and Claire couldn’t blame them for wanting to be as far away from this as possible. Karen hugged her and told her she should come, too. Maybe Karen was right, but Claire wasn’t quite ready to tuck her tail between her legs, roll over, and say die, so she said, “I’ll think about it,” and waved as they drove away.
Claire took the stairs back to her hotel room. There were reporters in the lobby, but maybe they didn’t recognize her like this, hair curly and dressed in the best things the hotel gift shop offered. Claire wouldn’t have recognized herself like this a few days ago, but now she felt more like herself than she had in years.
Claire closed the door behind her just as Grady emerged from the shower, a towel hung low around his hips.
“I probably smell better,” he said, before inquiring after the kids.
“Back on their way to Connecticut,” she said. “I think they actually wanted to stay here, how mad is that?”
Grady shrugged. “You stayed.”
She nodded. “You too.”
Grady reached out; he cupped her cheek in his palm, his fingers sliding through her curls.
“I like your hair like this,” he said.
***
CNN called. Talk shows, magazines. Even Oprah called.
“You’re famous,” Grady said dryly.
Claire pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m never going to work again.”
“That’s okay,” Grady said. “I’ll be a lion tamer, and you and the bearded lady can share my trailer.”
Claire felt a smile begin to tug at her lips. “You’re shacking up with the bearded lady?”
“No,” Grady said seriously. “I’m shacking up with you.”
***
Claire dreamed of the circus. Grady cracked his whip, and the lions circling him sat on their haunches, pawing at the air. The spotlight turned to Claire. She was shackled to a wooden wheel, wearing her ripped dress from that night at the park. There was a dark figure, hidden by the lights, faceless; he threw knives at her.
Claire woke with a start, the sheets twisted around her. Grady was on his side, back to her, sans covers and still asleep. Claire pressed her hand between his shoulder blades and felt his heartbeat pound against her palm.
***
Claire peeked out the curtains. “Being confined to this hotel room is driving me crazy.”
“You’re not confined,” Grady said. “You can leave at any time.”
She let the curtain swing back in place. “No, I can’t. I can’t go out there.”
Grady approached her at the window. “I’ll go with you.”
Claire wasn’t sure that would be enough. “I’ll dye my hair and sneak out the laundry shoot.”
“There isn’t a laundry shoot.”
“Shit.”
Grady took her hand. “Come on.”
***
The press was not, as she imagined, camped outside her hotel room, but she was pretty sure it was not, as Grady insisted, because the story had been eclipsed by some starlet flashing the paparazzi. It was only three days after-after she had-
“I feel like I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.
Grady frowned at her. “What is this?”
“This,” she said, motioning around her. They were walking the street through the bustle of little shops selling fruit, souvenirs, cigars. The street bustled, people weaving in and out of the shops, moving out of the way for little scooters as they came grumbling by.
“Okay,” Grady said, stretching out the last syllable in a way that suggested he had no idea what she was talking about.
“I just-”
“You want to go back to the hotel?”
“No,” she said. “But I feel like I should. Like-like it’s not fair that I’m out here, when-”
“When people are dead,” Grady said. “I get it.”
Claire’s shoulders slumped. “Am I crazy?”
“Definitely. But maybe not about this. It’s called survivor’s guilt. It’s normal. But there is a cure.”
She looked at him, hope on her face. “What is it?”
“A drink.”
***
They sat in the back corner of a little bar’s patio, away from the street. Claire let Grady order for her, which is why she was drinking tequila instead of white wine.
“What is this thing called?” she asked again.
“A paloma.”
She sipped the sweet stuff through her straw. “And what does that mean?”
“You don’t speak Spanish? You live in Costa Rica!”
Claire frowned. “Are you going to tell me, or not?”
“It means dove,” he said. “Are you feeling any better?”
Claire finished her third paloma. “You know, I am.”
Grady smiled. “Imagine that.”
***
Claire dreamed of thunder. A roar erupted from the heavens, and the ground shook until it broke open, a chasm forming at her feet. Claire felt herself fall.
“You okay?” Grady asked when she woke. “Are you going to throw up again? You’re a lousy drunk, you know.”
Claire shook her head. She forced herself to sit up. “My head hurts,” she said.
“I’ll bet,” Grady said. He left the bed. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
Grady had left the curtains open. Sunlight filtered in, made kaleidoscope fractals on the bedspread. Claire reached out her hand; the crystals of light covered her skin.
They looked like scales. Claire withdrew her hand.
***
The beaches were crowded, shouting and laughter and splashing. Claire wondered if they worried about sharks. She never had.
They ducked into one of the little souvenir shops. Grady tried on sunglasses.
“Maybe we should go away somewhere,” he said.
Claire studied some medals with the Madonna on them. “Where? There’s nowhere to go.”
“There’s the whole world, Claire.”
Before she could speak, Grady put on a pair of women’s rhinestone-encrusted, cat-eye sunglasses. He arched his eyebrow, and Claire laughed.
“Maybe,” she said.
***
Outside it was dark and raining, the sky crackling with lightning. Grady turned off the TV; it was nothing but static. He sat the remote on top of the television; Claire watched him from the bed, tucked up against the headboard with the pillows.
“We beat the storm,” he said.
“You think?” She looked at him. “Come here.”
Grady walked over to her. Claire scooted to the edge of the bed; she slipped her fingers through his belt loops.
“Claire,” he said softly.
She pulled him down to the bed; Grady crawled over her. She tugged his shirt off over his head, her fingernails tickling across his back. She kissed him, sucking at the pulse point in his neck, as he positioned her beneath him, his hands up under the hem of her nightgown.
“It is ridiculous that you are wearing this thing,” he said. “I feel like I’m in bed with Jane Austen.”
She bit him, and whispered a choice phrase that never appeared in one of Jane Austen’s novels. Her underwear off, and Claire’s small hands unbuckling his belt.
“Hurry,” she said.
He held her as he entered her, kissing her lips, her face, her throat. Claire lifted her hips for him, the scratch of the denim of his jeans-still half on-rubbing at her white skin. Grady’s hands in her hair, her hands on his back, her knees pressing against his ribcage.
Claire breathed against Grady’s ear. “I want you.”
He grinned. “You got me.”
***
They lay together afterwards, watching the pattern of rain and lightning as filtered through the hotel’s window.
“I can’t believe we waited so long to do that,” she said.
“You’re telling me.”
The rain reflected on their skin. With her forefinger, Claire traced the path of a drip down Grady’s chest. He pulled her close.
That night, Claire dreamed of nothing at all.