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Owen hadn’t been joking when he told Claire all his belongings were left behind on the island.
Six years ago he had arrived on Isla Nublar with a single rucksack slung over his shoulder and a cardboard box of textbooks and everything he had deemed too valuable to be shipped in a cargo ship tucked under his arm. Valuable things like the vinyl records his old man had passed on to him and an old portable gramophone that deserved to be in a museum. His new employer might be a (dirty? arrogant? suspicious? stupid?) billion-dollar worth of company, but he was still wary. Everything about the new job made him wary, and yet there he was anyway.
(And look where he is now.)
“Um, what is this?” Claire’s clear green-blue eyes cautiously flicked up to his. He was holding a yellow tulip, had even wrapped a tiny blue bow around the stem. He could see the wheels inside her head roll, and click. The realization finally set in. “Owen, really, you didn’t have to-“
“It’s just a flower,” he grinned. Not even in his wildest dream would he admit to her that he might have stolen it from her neighbor’s greenhouse.
He hadn’t been sure what flowers would be the right choice to give to Claire, but he knew that a red rose would be a bit too much too soon right now, given how they hadn’t even talked about what they were. Still, he knew women were notoriously known for caring about flowers and meanings –whoever came up with those at the first place must have had way too much free time on their hands- and the last thing he wanted was to present her with something that was a famous symbol for rejected love. Making a list of flower language and color-coding them seemed like something Claire would do, so he’s not taking any chances.
(However, according to one of the many Cosmopolitans he had later found in the guest room, yellow tulips meant ‘there was sunshine in your eyes’. It sounded poetic with a little bit of cheese on the side, so it was good enough for him.
Besides, it’s not like it was untrue.)
His life in boxes, he had thought as he looked at the half dozen of boxes scattered around the minimalist apartment in Jurassic World he had been assigned to. Everything about the place was brand new, polished white and spotty clean (it kind of reminded him of futuristic sci-fi movies that he didn’t care for, the kind with bad story construction with Oscar worthy visual effects and it wasn’t even the bad kind that was fun to watch), and he’d be damned if he had to spend his time on the island living there.
What had become of his bungalow now?
It had been four days since they left the island and as much as they wanted to leave Costa Rica altogether, they couldn’t. The Masrani Global had told them to stay put until the whirlwind died down some (Owen thought they were being a tad too optimistic because really, loose dinosaurs injuring –killing- people, the press were having a field day) and even after, he knew there would be endless depositions waiting for them, the survivors. The ones responsible. The ones who had tried to put a stop on it, and fortunately had succeeded. Them.
He wasn’t only homeless, he was also jobless with only twenty-two bucks miraculously stuffed in his pants.
His mind circled back to his first thought: Claire, who had kindly taken him in and offered him her guest room as well as her credit card because by some dumb luck the bank had his account frozen. Claire, whose birthday was today.
(Birthdays for him had quickly lost its charms by the time he reached twenty-five. This year it was a Monday and next year it would be a Tuesday. More excuses to have more drinks because hey, you never knew what’s going to happen tomorrow. What had happened this week was a perfect example of that.)
He shouldn’t have known about her birthday. Wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t accidentally walk passed her bedroom this morning when she was in the middle of a Facetime session with her over-eager nephew who was already back in Wisconsin.
(Sometime between skidding over the grovels to hide from the Indominus-Rex and being tackled by a Dimorphodon, he had managed to demolish his phone so badly he had to pick metal pieces out of his pocket.)
Acting on instinct, he had continued to listen. Gray was bombarding Claire with questions about what her ‘badass boyfriend’ had planned (Zach immediately quipped that he didn’t want to imagine what those plans were, that little bastard) and she chuckled, nervously, telling the boys he didn’t even know that today was her birthday and asked them to keep it that way.
Owen wondered if she realized she didn’t try to correct Gray. He also wondered if her reluctance was because she knew about the twenty-two dollars.
“Thank you,” Claire finally took the flower, their fingers brushing together for a brief moment. A shy smile made its way to her face and when she looked up at him again, he was certain that ‘there was sunshine in her eyes’. “You really didn’t have to,” she nuzzled the flower with the tip of her nose. “Did the boys tell you?”
“They didn’t, and it’s really just a flower. Thought you’d like it. But,” he paused, wiping his suddenly damp hands on his jeans. “That’s not your present.”
Claire frowned, confusion mounting. It had been a last minute plan, one he hadn’t thought thoroughly enough because he tended to act first before thinking. He lived for spontaneous moments and this was one of them. “It’s actually more of a confession too, you’ll see.”
Before she could comment, he crossed his arms and pulled his shirt off in one swift move. Claire’s eyes went wide as they locked on his chest, her fingers grasping the edges of the magazine she had been reading so tightly the papers crinkled under the pressure. It was actually a very lovely sight, seeing her cheeks turn almost as fiery crimson as her hair. Did she think he was going to perform a striptease -because the set up was kind of misleading- and on second thought he probably would’ve been less nervous stripping in front of her because-
“Oh my God, Owen, what did you do?”
- because he hadn’t really expected today would ever come - the day he got to show her his tattoo. Or scribble. It was too small and too amateurish looking to even be called a tattoo. He could already hear professional tattoo artists weep at the idea.
“Is that-“
“Yeah,”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you-“
“Me too.”
“Is that-“
“Real?”
A weak nod.
“Yeah.”
“Shit.”
Claire looked positively, mortifyingly embarrassed, rightly so, and her blush deepened to a scarlet red, spreading down to her pale neck. Screw propriety - he couldn’t hold back his laugh anymore, so he laughed. Loudly. A full-blown belly laugh that shook his body and left him wheezing. He threw his discarded shirt to the coffee table and dropped himself on the spot next to Claire, whose expression was just as horrified as when he had showed up in a pair of board shorts for their epically failed first date.
He half expected her to bolt, even though he wouldn’t know how to proceed if she did (she didn’t), but he also hadn’t expected himself to lose it in front of her like this, so they were at an impasse.
“That… doesn’t look new,” she finally found her voice; her eyes never left his torso and the Dear Dearing tattooed in what's supposed to be an elegant script on his left pectoral. The black ink was now dark bluish grey, looking almost faded on his tanned skin.
Some mischievous, teasing retorts were already on the tip of his tongue ready to strike because if she stared more intently than she already had, she would bore holes into his skin. At the same time, he realized an explanation would be the next best step before she came to her senses and throw him out of her house.
“You remember our date?” he asked when he could suppress his laughter to mild chuckles. Her answer was a silent roll of her eyes, because of course, who could forget something so disastrously memorable? “Yeah, well. Let’s just say after you left, I had five or ten drinks too many.” He could usually hold his liquor, but whatever the bartender had served him, mixed with a generous amount of frustration, had successfully made him piss-ass drunk by the time he dragged his ass out of the bar. A terrible date with Claire Dearing shouldn't have made him that upset, but it had, and that above anything else had made him even angrier. He was a proud, stubborn man, and not even a three-day hangover and a souvenir tattoo could bring him down a peg.
Claire put her hand on her forehead as if she suddenly developed a headache. She probably did. “I didn’t know there was a tattoo parlor on the island.”
“There wasn’t,” he answered, shifting slightly so he could look at her. Her blush had subsided a little and she was glowing. The old Claire would have undoubtedly started calling him ‘atrocious’ and its Thesaurus synonyms by now, which admittedly would dent his ego a bit, but things had changed now. They could actually stand each other nowadays.
Simon Masrani had wanted people to realize how small they really were. He had succeeded, especially with the park gone haywire like that, but the cost was just too high.
When he dreamed at night, it was usually of Blue and her siblings. He knew Claire had been having nightmares almost daily. One time he woke up in the middle of the night to Claire crawling under the covers to huddle up to him. He simply put his arm across her body and held her close, waiting until she matched her breathing to his and fell back asleep. It didn’t magically chase off the bad dreams, but he felt better because he knew he didn’t have to face everything alone. She was lending him strength just by being there, and he genuinely hoped he could provide the same level of comfort.
“You probably don’t remember him, but Todd, one of my interns, had this DIY tattoo kit. He was staying with me for a week since there were plumbing problems in the housing complex. After I got home I apparently talked to him all night long, more likely went on a heated angry rant, and what do you know. Maybe I pissed him off for going on and on and on about your…” he cleared his throat, actually had the decency to look slightly apologetic. “Itineraries, that he decided to leave a little reminder of the botched date. Or maybe he was just pissed I drank all of his Jack Daniel's, dunno. He insisted I was the one who demanded him to do it, because that totally makes sense, right, so, yeah. Believe whichever you want.”
Of course the jackass had also not so subtly accused him for having some feelings for her (“Dude, are you in love with her or something?”) because he was "throwing tantrums like little kids at the Park who wanted to pet the T-rex". He said none of these to Claire.
“Todd Berkins, the one with crooked nose? Brown hair, lanky,” Claire trailed off. He must look pretty impressed because she huffed, looking slightly offended, more offended than finding her name tattooed on his body. “I was the park’s operational manager. It was my job to know who’s who.”
“You’re being so weirdly calm about this,” he had had this crazy idea of her screaming, accusing him of lying and being obsessed with her, in a really, really bad way. To say he was majorly relieved was an understatement.
Claire bit her lip. “Why didn’t you have it lasered off?”
Owen was aware at how close they were sitting right now. “I never really checked if Masrani’s insurance would cover it. You think Dr. Wu would have done it for free? What do you think, Boss?”
Claire rolled her eyes, brushing the tulip across his nose like he was a cat. “Don’t be a smartass.”
The silence that followed next fell over them like a downy blanket. Owen couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She had bypassed the hair straightener every morning now so her luscious red locks fell in waves framing her face. She lifted her right hand a couple of times before returning it to her lap. Her fingers probably itched to touch her inked name almost as badly as his wanted to run through her hair.
“Did you throw him into the pen?” she teased, her voice as smooth as warm milk.
Owen shrugged. At least Todd had the decency not to spread gossips all around the island, because that would have been fun. “I might have landed a punch or two.” Or three, for the stupid comment.
Claire released an unlady-like snort, her head flopping back. “It has got to be some mood killer though. How did you even explain that? Um, it's the name of my boat. Or... Dearing was my adorable poodle for fifteen years,”
Owen rubbed the healing scratch on his cheek, his gut sinking a little. Casually discussing his sex life with Claire like two good buddies was not what he was aiming for here. “Nah, it’s a chihuahua.”
“As long as you didn’t say she was your mom!”
“Grandma?”
“Jesus, Owen.”
He laughed, feeling even more encouraged when she giggled (honest to God, giggled) along with him. Her legs were tucked prettily beneath her, the hand resting on the back of her beige couch supporting her head. Despite the black circles under her eyes, she looked as comfortable and happy as he had ever seen her after they left the island and he had to make a Herculean effort not to try moving up his status from her quote boyfriend unquote to boyfriend without the punctuation marks right that second.
“No, my girls were smart, but I didn’t think they could read. They hadn’t reached that milestone yet.” If she thought it was weird that he kept addressing the Raptors as his girls, she didn’t show it (but he really thought she was cool about it, and he couldn’t wait till she began to do the same, calling them her girls).
“I told you the tequilas were bad ideas,” she remarked with bravado, eyes shining like she had won the first prize. Maybe cause she knew she would never get so wasted she would wake up with a Goddamn Grady on her back. It also didn’t hurt that she didn’t hang out with douchey friends.
"Did you like your present?"
(He would feed himself to hungry dinosaurs first before using her credit card to buy her a birthday gift.)
The thing he had really wanted to give her was something, anything, that could take her mind off of the island, if only for a day. It was a risk he had been willing to take as the way he'd imagined it, she would've never found out about the tattoo - ever. Though there might have been fantasies about the two of them having more intimate activities involving less clothing, if any, and finding new things about each other, including the Dear Dearing. But it was neither here nor there.
Claire pursed her lips, swept her gaze over the wide planes of his torso, and leaned over to whisper over his ear. She smelled of fresh-cut flowers and summer breeze. "I'm pleased to inform you that the asset turned out to be rather... impressive," she pulled back, beamed at him, and twitched her nose. "Though I can't say I really fancy the idea of putting names on someone's body."
He didn't know what he was expecting to hear, but it sounded exactly like something she would say. "This," he pointed at the tattoo, puffing out his chest a bit because he really fancied seeing her flush. "Is like a permanent hickey.”
"Oh, you!"
Owen grinned, rubbing the spot on his arm she just swatted. "It's true."
“Why here?” This time she did reach out her hand to trace out her name. When her delicate finger pressed against his skin, the feeling was unlike when he first saw Blue, still unnamed then, break out of her shells. With a boldness he didn't see coming, Claire began to rub and scratch the spot, probably trying to prove it wasn't one of his ridiculous jokes. She was slowly driving him crazy. Her touch and her closeness. This was definitely not how a friend would feel. He could feel her warm minty breath across his shoulder and the whole keeping things platonic until further notice was really, really difficult.
“I personally thought it was the easiest place for him to reach, me passing out spread eagle on my couch,” she snorted at his answer and he really wanted to know if she could feel his heart beating a mile a minute beneath her fingertips. He closed his hand around hers, thumb drawing invisible pattern on the back of her hands. Her freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones like constellations of stars and he wanted to kiss every single one of them. “But it’s kinda fitting, right? Cause. For survival.”
The implication wasn’t lost on her (that he needed her to survive, that she was the reason his heart was still beating, that he never thought in a million years that they would just click, that in spite of their differences they’re not actually that different after all, that she was his heart), and she nodded, smiling softly, her fingers curling around his. “For survival.”
“Happy birthday, Claire.”
“Thank you. I expected today to really suck,” she gave him a small smile, her fingers playing with the hem of her shirt.
Owen could almost see the storm brewing in her ocean-colored eyes. She was grateful for the opportunity to celebrate one more year of her life and hell, so was he. Wouldn’t know what to do if things had gone wrong and he had to come back to the mainland alone. On the other hand, how many people didn’t have the same luxuries?
Didn’t like the way her thoughts seemed to be going after seeing her so relaxed a few minutes before, he immediately interfered, asking with a playful wiggle of his eyebrows, “So, my Dear Dearing, you’ve got interesting inks you want to show me somewhere?”
“I don’t know, when’s your birthday?”