#thealphaa

"I'm sorry?"

His hand around her wrist stopped her in her tracks but not with the reaction that he was wanting. She could bet on that. She wanted to storm off. Cool down and think about it logically, but no. Owen couldn't just leave it alone. Never could. Just kept poking at the bruise and making it worse.

"Let me go, or lose your hand, Mr. Grady. You do not own me,  nor are you my keeper. I can leave if I damned well want to. And  you've made it clear that whatever I have to say is not wanted. So."

You just went and made a new dinosaur?

“Uhm --”

God, Nadia, pull it together. Why did you agree to an internship on an island full of dinosaurs when they terrify you?

She’s standing against the bars staring wistfully at what used to be her home. “Where am I going to go?” She asks in a quiet voice slightly afraid of the answer.

                                  ♕ 〚 -------- but watch the queen ｃｏｎｑｕｅｒ

It always starts quiet. It always starts with Owen's arm pressed against her stomach making sure she's against the old park's jeep. Like a selt belt, it is supposed to keep her safe. The sniff, and the receding and then the roar.

It's the roar that always gets her. She never screams, but she tosses in bed, trying to get away, away, a w a y  from the monster she created, endorsed, put out on display. And then came the screams of the 22,000 people she was supposed to protect, save, filling the air as sharp teeth and nimble talons lifted them from the ground into the sky .... only to drop them once more to an agonizing death.

And then there was the ending. She never got the T-Rex. She faced down Indominous Rex and it came closer and closer and closer and-----

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and she almost fought them until she realized who it was and where she was. She never could remember screaming.

" ---- Owen," her voice comes out in a whimpered plea, and her hands are already curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him down to her so she can bury her face against his chest and hide from the shadows that lurked around them both.

Away from the blood that coated her hands.

Claire didn't remember what woke her up, but that it was Owen. And even half asleep, she could tell that he wasn't okay. (When were they okay lately? If one didn't have nightmares, the other did. Very scarcely did the nights go uninterrupted.)

( But never did the nights go by alone. )

"Owen?"

Her light tone was ladened with sleep that she couldn't shake off, but at least it wasn't as tense as she could tell his body was, even in the dark. Frowning, the redhead moved closer, pressing a hand against his shoulder, squeezing gently and ignoring the way he jumped. He should know better than to try to hide them from her by now.

But silence was her only answer, and she shook her head with a heavy sigh. Well, fine. She'd make him relax anyway. They both needed to sleep with a day filled with business men who would blame her for the park's failure. Who would hound the expert on why the raptors obeyed Indominus. They would both be attacked, ripped apart and left to put themselves back together with frail string and shaking hands. She knew it, and so did he.

"If you think silence is going to deter me from trying to find out if you're okay, you are greatly mistaken, Mr. Grady," she said softly, shifting to make sure he was facing her, even if his gaze was elsewhere.

That was fine.

Gingerly picking up his hand, she laced her fingers with his and smiled a little when he squeezed her hand in response. Pulling their hands upwards, she pressed a small kiss to the back of his hand.

"Come on. Talk to me."

A kiss against his wrist and another against his forearm, and then she let go to effectively straddle his hips, but only to get him to look at her. To focus on her and not what was in his head.

     Not Jurassic World. Not the Indominus Rex. Not the raptors. Her. It      may sound selfish, but too long in one's head could be bad. Guilt      and depression lingered there, and she wouldn't let him fall without      her to hold onto.

Leaning forward, Claire pressed her hands against his face, gentle but firm. A kiss found its way onto the skin of his throat, the line of his jaw, and trailed upwards across his cheek to finally land on his lips. The latter lasted for a good few seconds before she pulled away only to whisper, "You're not allowed to leave me for la-la land, Mr. Grady."

This wasn't how the story was supposed to end.

They got out. They faced down monstrocities of imagination's darker realms and lived. That was supposed to be enough. For a woman who once took everything she had for granted, she was definitely changing that. Less itineraries. Less control. More... going with the flow. More freedom.

More fun. Less death. That was the plan. That's how the story was supposed to end. That's how her story----their story----was supposed to end.

Late nights with movies were soon becoming her favorite. It was hard to relax. Hard to unwind after nearly a decade of being as tight as a string, so afraid to move in case it broke and ruined everything. But, it was getting better. And everything was perfect. Exceptionally perfect that Claire was almost asleep while the television droned on. It didn't help that the steady rhythm of heart beat and breathing drumming into her ear, and the warmth seeping from Owen to her was a lullaby that she didn't realize existed.

Everything was perfect. Until there was a noise in the kitchen. Owen was the one who heard it, because he instantly tensed and tried to move her without waking her up, but she was awake the instant the atmosphere changed. Blinking her eyes until they focused, Claire shifted to sit up and looked over the back of the couch.

Maybe it was nothing. (At least that's what she thought at first.)

It happened extremely fast. The pair surprised the man in the kitchen and the shot was loud, not as loud as her almost scream, but loud. The man ran, and she thought everything was okay----until she turned to ask Owen to call the police.

He was leaning against the door frame, a hand pressed against his chest. At first, it didn't register. Not even the dark red stain that was slowly blossoming even as he tried to stop it.

No.

No, no, no, no.

He dropped and she hit her knees with him. Shaking hands tried to examine the wound, but he was talking. He was talking and she wasn't listening. Her mind was going through the probabilities. How likely it was that he was going to survive this and everything came up nil.

"Claire----"

"Shut up. Just shut up. You're going to be fine. I'll just call the ambulance and get you help, and you'll be fine. You'll be fine. You---"

A hand brushed her cheek and she tried to ignore the stickly warmth that was left behind. Instead, she tried to focus on his face. Ignore the blood. Get the phone. But, she knew it was too late the moment his eyes closed.

The story was over, and she wanted to scream. Scream, rage, and demand another chance. Anything. Something.