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It would be disingenuous to say he had no inkling to what he was being brought there to do. It would be calling himself an idiot, and despite some claims to the contrary (Claire. Always her. Somehow, always her), he’s no fool.
When you, a military dolphin trainer, are brought to an island to train velociraptors specifically because of your military knowledge, there’s only one reason.
He could say that he hoped they weren’t stupid enough to go through with it. He could say he’d talk down hints at the idea. He could say he didn’t want that to be the outcome of his research. But he can’t say he was ignorant. He can’t say that he quit when he realized, and he can’t say that he ever contemplated leaving the girls when there wasn’t a clear way to avoid it.
It doesn’t hit him until late in the night, stuck in an Italian hotel room. When Claire’s wheezing breaths are the only noise, and her body is cold against his even under Mediterranean heat and a blanket.
If something had happened to her, if she hadn’t gotten to that plane on time, it would’ve been on him. Mostly on Santos, but not without a damning amount on him.
Santos trained raptors, and she trained them damn well. Just like the indoraptor was trained to hunt until the chase was final.
She shifts in her sleep, face still drawn in a discontent scrunch.
They’d talked some about what they’d missed. About a pyroraptor ice bath and crawling through the mud. About an atrociraptor being pinned to her by Santos, causing the sharp line of bruises on her abdomen - collision with a railing - and another impact line on her side - falling two stories onto a truck bed.
He would’ve had no idea what happened to her. Deep in a city street in Malta, he’d be waiting on news of her body being found in a language he can’t read.
Maybe someone else would’ve accomplished it in his place, but as it stands, he proved dinosaurs could be trained. He stated time and time again they were intelligent animals that could be loyal and retain what they were taught.
He gave Santos the key to what could’ve been—
Claire shifts again. With how much bruising there is, no position could be comfortable for long. He studies the rise and fall of her chest against his side. He also notes it’s sharper than he’s used too, more tense, more weary.
There’s not much they can do for any of their injuries beyond sleep and painkillers. All they can really do is be thankful Maisie’s in the best shape of all three of them. Minor cuts. No broken ribs or tie-dyed abdomen.
He’d do it again without hesitation. For either of them. He’d even do it again for Blue, and by extension, Beta.
Claire would, too, he knows. After all these years, he knows his partner damn well. He doubts any limit would stop her from reaching their daughter. Not even a dozen raptor packs.
He can’t stop thinking about the atrociraptors.
Were this four years ago, there would be a not so subtle fight over her ability to walk on her own. Now, she lets him wrap an arm around her in a not so subtle ask of lean on me .
They’re on their way inside after a long, long amount of travel back to the states. It’s peculiar. Coming back home like a wholly different person.
Not new, unfortunately. But always peculiar.
Though, with Claire by his side and Maisie scurrying ahead, he’s not wholly different. Together, they clean up the mess, and prepare for a long awaited sleep in their own beds.
“You didn’t even stop to clean up,” he overhears in the kitchen.
“Groceries can be replaced. You can’t,” says Claire. Why she continues to doubt herself is beyond him. She’s kind, concise, and understanding with every action.
He’s bias, of course, being in love with her and all, but it’s something close to objective fact.
The threat of nightmares keeps them all up longer than they’d like. Distracting themselves in the menial to avoid the possibility of sleepless nights.
Claire is lagging. He sees a limp return to the indoraptor-injured leg beside winces from new injuries. He desperately wants to say something, to force her to rest, but he’s a hypocrite with plane crash injuries. They’re as bad as each other.
When it is time to settle for the night, when it’s absurd to keep going, she’s even slower.
At this stage, there’s no need for privacy. They don’t need separate rooms to change, to wipe away muck and grime from hours of planes and hotel rooms and crusted cuts, and neither do they particularly want to be far from the other. It could become a problem, feeling like he can’t breathe if one of them isn’t in his line of sight, but it’s a problem for a later date.
She doesn’t ask for help with her shirt. That would require something Claire Dearing is incapable of: wanting help. He knows by now her body is protesting movement of any kind, though, so she doesn’t need to.
It’s not a sight he can get used to. The body he knows being completely painted over. Only hints of the real color left under an unnerving mosaic.
They curl into bed the moment it’s over. The other times, sleeping was not their first priority in a bed. It was about knowing they were alive still. Feeling something other than trauma-induced adrenaline. Distracting themselves so they couldn't dwell. Now, his main concern is reminding himself Claire is fine. She’s tangible enough to hold with a chest that still rises.
That’s when thoughts turn to the ways she could’ve gone. The atrociraptors return.
He wouldn’t describe himself as a particularly sensitive person. Empathic, sure. But not soft or particularly delicate with his feelings.
Though, loss ruins about anyone it comes across. He thinks of her, bruised abdomen, chased by an atrociraptor, and the possibility of being alone in this room, and it is damning. It’s why he plans to go first when that eventuality arrives; he’d never be able to sleep in this room again without knowing she’s there to share it.
When he begins crying, he’s not sure. It’s not until her hand is cupping his cheek that he even notices. Her thumb wipes away a stray tear, and it’s all he can feel. The warmth of a single finger lighting up his entire body.
The smile she wears is gentle reassurance with unspoken understanding. How many times has he done this for her? Held her close after a sleepless night. Whispered sweet nothings to keep her mind quiet. He places his hand over hers.
It cements the fact he’d collapse without her. He’d never be able to bury her without a matching grave waiting for himself.
He doesn’t tell what’s on his mind. She doesn’t ask.
(The atrociraptors’ could’ve done any manner of things to her, to Barry, to anyone there, and it would’ve been his fault. He showed them the way. Claire’s life was in the hands of his research, and it could’ve killed her.
It repeats in his mind. The same concept, again and again. Trained raptors, his life’s work, chasing her. Maybe she trips. Maybe dinosaurs are simply faster than any person. Maybe it catches her from above. It all ends the same.
Maisie loses her mother. And it’s all because he trained raptors ten years ago. He didn’t think ahead far enough to realize what that would mean for the world.
They’d gut her at the command of a trainer, and it would be his fault for showing them the way.)
When he was young, the neighbors across the street had a dog. He was a nice dog that Owen played with, but he was also anxious. Not the kind of anxiety where you hide. The kind where you lash out.
He bit the wrong person and they put him down the next week.
Today, Owen sits on the porch with his eyes on the woods. He’d never be able to do that to either of the raptors. Blue has maimed and killed, yet he could never bring himself to hurt her. She’s done worse than anything that dog could imagine.
She’s threatened Claire, even. But in his heart, it felt like something he could’ve stopped. Blue would see him step in front of her and the boys, and she’d stand down. That’s what happened. Dangerous animal, yet one he raised. His violent family member.
The atrociraptors aren’t his to command. Nothing he can do would have been able to sway them from their mission. That’s the nature of information; once it enters the public, it stops being yours. You train raptors, and anyone can train raptors. They stop being your labor of love and become weapons.
The door creaks open behind him, with the distinct smell of Claire’s morning tea. No more coffee these days. But the tea probably has more caffeine.
“You’re up early. The sun’s barely up,” she says, taking a seat beside him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and grunts as reply. “Talkative, too.” She gently blows into the mug.
“Why’re you up if it’s so early?” he says.
She takes a sip, giving a content hum. “Bed’s cold. Why else?”
“You are severely unequipped for the cold.” He looks at her then. Follows the bridge of her nose, the pout of her lips, up to the shine of her eyes. “How the hell did you survive Wisconsin?”
The far corner of her lips raises. “Why do you think I left so soon?”
“You couldn’t wait to find me, the love of your life?” he teases.
She tries to chuckle. Before she can get far, she’s curling into herself with a twisted frown and furrowed brow. It’s a shot to the chest.
He jumps in front of her, one hand on her back, and the other on her cheek. “Hon, go easy on it. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Gee, think I don’t know that?” she bites back. Better than nothing. If she’s got the peace of mind to pick a fight, she’s in better shape already.
“Yes, yes. You’re smart. I’m stupid. It’ll be okay. You’ll be good as new in a few weeks, okay?” He leaves a brief kiss on the top of her head.
“Don’t patronize me, Grady.” They're both silent for a long moment. No sound beyond their shared breaths. “I’m okay. I’m okay now.” She straightens up, lifting her head to meet his gaze. She does her best to smile, but it’s no perfect attempt.
(He thinks of atrociraptors, again. And he thinks of how afraid she must have been. No motorcycle to outrun them. Only evading them on foot across rooftops, wondering if she’ll trip with the next stride.
He thinks of how she must have been terrified. Maisie would be stuck in a lab, maybe experimented on, and no one would be there to save her. She would think no one even tried. She’d go the rest of her life thinking her parents never tried to rescue her. Or go the rest of her life knowing her mother died to save her.
Claire would die young and afraid. And completely, utterly alone. He wouldn’t have been able to tell her goodbye. Tell her he loves her. Tell her she’s the only reason he got through the aftermath of the park and loss of the girls. After, he’d have collapsed under the weight of grief, and it would be his fault.)
It comes to a head in the kitchen. He’s dodged his own mind for a week, to Claire’s annoyance, but there’s marathons one simply can’t win; memory being the largest contender. He’s alone with his thoughts a moment too long when it snaps something vital. Teeth to the throat.
He’s on the floor with a provoking image behind his eyes. Claire, in the display. With her gashed leg. Blood keeps coming and coming. Her face is contorted. And all he can think is, I did this. They weaponized his weapon research, and it put a hole in her leg.
It’s going to devour her whole. The moment it devours that child, teeth will sink into her. If it’s merciful, he’ll be next. But he sees her in his mind's eye, and he sees a timeline where she doesn’t make it out. He sees a world where Maisie has no mother, and it’s as bad as the world where she loses her mother.
Or worse for the sheer fact that Claire is what keeps his mind intact. Keeps him grounded, keeps him happy, keeps him human. He needs her more than she’ll probably ever need him, and he’s content in that knowledge.
Pots and a spatula lay forgotten on the counter while he sinks into the hardwood. He rubs a hand over his face, and it feels like someone else’s limb. Someone else’s body. Just as distant is the front door opening, a hand on his shoulder, and a distant, “ Owen ?”
Something taps his cheek. “Look at me. Eyes on me.”
He blinks. Rubs a hand over his face again. “That’s my line,” he rasps, half-heartedly.
She - Claire, he’s present enough to realize now - huffs the equivalent of laughter. “Knew that’d get you.” She’s on the floor with him, sitting on her knees and leaning in close. She pulls back, taking the whole of his face. “Are you okay? What are you doing on the floor?”
“S’nothing.”
“It definitely is. You’ve definitely had something on your mind since we got back. And you’re keeping it locked in. Like we agreed we don’t do anymore.” There’s no escape from how her gaze prods him. Nicks at the edges to dig straight into the muscle and meat of his being. No different than walking naked through Central Park.
Still, his lead tongue hesitates. Putting the burden of his guilt onto the one terrorized by it; Does he have any right to do that? He knows, looking her in the eyes, she would hate that train of thought.
The park eats her alive everyday. It sticks to her skin like a leech, driving her to the edge of extremes that he keeps her from toppling into. She knows the lengths guilt will consume a conscience, and she’d call him a hypocrite for this game they’re playing.
He is. He really is.
His gaze falls to her ribs again. From the corner of his vision, he sees her lips flatten into a line. “Owen—“
“How bad does it hurt today?”
“I’m already a lot better. But Owen—“
“They’re adorable as babies. Like puppies, almost. Really hyper. Really curious.” He smiles, mirthless. “Then they’re not so cute. Their shearing teeth come in, their claws are as thick as your fingers, and you can’t stay in the pen with them anymore. Soon, you’re doing training drills with them while your boss eyes them like pedigree hogs.”
“I don’t blame you,” she says, putting her hand over his. He raises it to his mouth and kisses the back.
He shakes his head. Their hands drop back to their sides. “I know you don’t. That’s not the problem.”
“So you admit there’s a problem?”
“I lead the way to turning dinosaurs into weapons,” he says.
“And I set the precedent for abusing genetic power,” she replies. “What did he say? Eli, I mean. We’re the parents of the new world?”
“But you didn’t. Not really. You wrote your signature on a piece of paper. You marketed a thing. The lab made it. Simon ordered it. That’s different.”
She swallows visibly. “They wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t sign that paper, though. It was my final say.”
“I proved it could be done. I was the lab coat messing with power’s he shouldn’t have. I played God, and—“ He chokes. “They went after me, they attacked Barry, they attacked Barry’s team.” He pauses, running his knuckles across her jaw. “She attacked you. There’s still a scar on your leg from the last raptor. And I can live with a lot of things— God knows we fucking have to because there’s no other option— but that’s… That’s something, Claire.”
“You’re not living with it, though. You’re wallowing. You’re shutting us out for something we don’t hold against you.” She sighs, biting her lip. “We fucked up. We fucked up, Owen. I don’t know if there’s coming back from some of it.” He opens his mouth to protest, which she swiftly shushes. “Stop. I know. I’m making up for it. But that’s how it feels , so hush.
“What I’m saying is, there’s an impossible standard. There’s no point where we’re going to feel like we’ve done enough to make up for what we’ve put into this world. Isn’t that what you want me to accept, too? All there is, is living with it. Maybe it’s entirely your fault, maybe it’s all on Santos, maybe there’s a countless amount of people responsible. But that doesn’t matter, because you’ve already convinced yourself you’ve hurt me, and the world, in some unforgivable way.
“But you haven’t hurt me. You’re not the one who dictates that. I am. I forgive you, and you have to live with that. And you forgave me, and I have to live with that. We’ve changed this world, in ways we can’t know the consequences of, and we live with that knowledge. But here,” she points down, “in this house, we’re forgiven for it. Can you accept that?”
He mulls over it in tandem silence with her. He can’t forgive himself for it. It wouldn’t be right. Just as she can’t forgive herself for the park. It wouldn’t be right.
But he can keep living, maybe. Put one foot in front of the other while his brain pieces itself back together. He can learn forgiveness. He can learn redemption. With Claire’s steady smile, entirely trusting, drenched in faith, it’s possible to live with anything.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
He presses his forehead against hers. “Yeah.”