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It’s been weeks since she’s returned from Isla Nublar. The Incident has taken over control of her life, resulting in a whirlwind of conferences, television appearances, and interviews. For Claire, it was a distraction, something that could block out the echoing roar of hybrid dinosaurs and screaming children.
Claire becomes the epitome of badass female hero. A grainy, low-resolution photo of her staring down a T-Rex has catapulted her into stardom, and when the cameras are rolling or when little girls come up to her and stare at her with wide eyes, she puts on that persona. The photo doesn’t show scared Claire Dearing, in desperate need of a dinosaur that could either eat her or save her, no, the photo shows a hero. It’s in every newspaper for a solid two months and even becomes an internet sensation.
It’s a façade she maintains, or else she would crack like pavement.
But, one time, when she’s alone in her home office reading over official statements from Masrani Corp she goes back to it. The sound of screeching raptors and tires against gravel, the pungent smell of blood in the air, her nephews holding onto her so tightly, her mind slowly becomes engulfed by these things and it’s like every single molecule of oxygen has left her lungs.
More memories wash over her, heels pounding against pavement, a hot flare in her hands, feeling like she isn’t going fast enough, that the T-Rex is going to eat her long before she can save her boys from the monster that she had a hand in creating.
She’s suffocating, and no one is there to help her. Drowning in a sea of screams, until she’s screaming herself – yelling into the empty space of her office, documents flying everywhere as she tangles her fingers in her hair and remembers that she has to breathe, just like the books said.
Claire feels herself pinned back into her chair, and panic sweeps through her. She’s fighting back, wriggling around and desperate to escape.
“Claire, it’s me, easy,” she hears a voice filled with authority and kindness in her ears, but all she can see is teeth, teeth, and more teeth. Clashing teeth, snarling teeth, hungry teeth.
She wants to scream more, but it gets stuck in throat, and she’s gasping for air because she’s still not breathing.
“Easy, easy, just take a breath.” Owen says as her vision sharpens and she sees green eyes and a scruffy beard that she adores so much, and when she sees that it’s Owen holding her down, she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly and continues the process until the screams in her head die down and all she can see is Owen’s face studying her own.
He wipes away tears with the pad of his thumb, cradling her head like she’s a newborn and is so, so, fragile.
“It’s okay, you’re safe.” He reassures her as she collapses into his chest, continuing to inhale and exhale slowly and the tears slowly melt away into his shirt.
He holds her, and the world is better.
-
Her panic attacks are few and far between.
The next one comes unexpectedly during an interview on 60 minutes. She’s forced into it through contract obligations and the higher ups assure her that it will be the last piece of press she does on The Incident.
It had been fine, the woman conducting the interview was well prepared, and so was Claire, who donned her new persona of badass Parks Manager and T-Rex Whisperer. Everything began unraveling though when the subject of evacuation came up.
“Obviously this hybrid dinosaur escaping posed a threat to all guests, so why did it take so long to issue an evacuation?” the woman insisted, crossing her legs and staring Claire down.
Claire swallows and her mouth is dry. She’s racking her brain for a typical answer that PR has been shoving down her throat for weeks, but she comes up empty. She’s starting to panic, the walls around them seem to get smaller, and slowly but surely the woman in front of her transforms into a reptilian hybrid.
She’s holding onto her chair with all the strength she has, the lights warming her skin, so that it feels like she’s back in the jungle on Isla Nublar. Her breathing becomes short and shallow and she looks everywhere but at the interviewer whose eyes are just like Indominus’.
Claire walks off the set on shaky legs, gasping for air and looking for Owen. She bursts through a door that leads outside and begins pacing up and down the walkway that leads into the studio. Her mind can only focus on jungle, yards of jungle with muddy heels and frizzy hair, helicopter blades and screeching pterodactyls.
It’s a cacophony of roars, screeches, and screams, slowly becoming an overwhelming chorus in her head.
She remembers she has to breathe.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Claire feels a hand wrap around her own, his skin warm and comforting in her own clammy one.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
“You’re doing fine,” Owen says, looking up into the sky as she reassembles the scattered pieces of her brain one by one.
“No, I’m not,” she stutters, her regular breathing pattern returns to her, “I’m never going to be either.”
Owen looks down at her, an intensity in his eyes she only ever saw when confronting his pack. He brings her into his chest, and she breathes in the scent of his pine cologne that she loves so much, and feels like her feet are finally grounded back into the floor.
“Yes you are,” He whispers, his head resting on top of hers. “You saved so many people that day, myself included. And I’ll gladly anchor you down.”
She nods, and he kisses the top of her head, then her forehead, her nose, and then a final one on the lips. A promise.
“The best anchor I could ask for.” She smiles, and not the fake one that she uses for cameras. A real one: reserved only for Owen.