pullmeoutalive | RO > call me out; a forever open RP post, version 2

[ The tragedy at Jurassic World flooded headlines the morning after everything took place. Thanks to social media and Isla Nublar's sturdy comm towers, news got out quickly; representatives were contacted for comment even as Pteranodons and Dimorphodons still rained down from the sky, stealing people away or clawing them to shreds. The pictures were gruesome. The live tweets were bleek and outraged. Jurassic World's logo was plastered on every news outlet around the world, along with Simon Masrani's face, and they would be for weeks to come.

Victims still seeking answers in wake of tragedy.

Eyewitness: 'It was chaos. Everyone was screaming.'

Who's to blame for 'Jurassic' disaster?

Owen's lucky enough to be a low man on the totem pole. Aside from brief fact-finding interviews conducted by Masrani Global and InGen for his involvement in the hunt for the Indominus Rex, he was mostly left alone. He was only a handler, after all, who happened to step up when things went to shit; that his Velociraptors turned on him and the InGen soldiers didn't seem to faze his interviewers. "You're a hero," one of the corporate shills told Owen as the interview drew to a close. It was obvious that they were looking for heroes. For acts of daring and selflessness performed by park employees to spin the tragedy into something positive. An unfortunate disaster, but look at these normal people, doing extraordinary things for their fellow man.

He felt dirty. Disgusting. The shower he took after that was a long one, and he nearly used all of the hot water scrubbing the feeling of slime away. But luckily, they didn't use his story in the newsreels. Too violent, probably. Too easy to see the gaping holes where they would leave out the moment he lost control of his raptors. They would never want to mention how in trying to save the park, Owen guided a platoon of men into the waiting jaws of his own dinosaurs, and how they died screaming.

Yeah. Probably not the sound bites they want going out over the waves.

Claire, though, had no such luck, and she became their posterchild and spokeswoman all at once. The grainy security camera footage of her standing before the infamous Tyrannosaurus Rex, flare in hand, had been leaked -- probably by Masrani Global's doing, if Owen had to guess. Not only was Claire busy fielding questions and rehashing the mistakes leading up to the disaster, but she also had to contend with being put up on a pedastal. Look at this brave woman, who saved her guests, who did everything she could to protect her nephews. Wasn't she courageous? Isn't she beautiful?

If nothing else, Owen is at least glad they aren't using her as a scapegoat. He's been in that position before, and he knows exactly how unpleasant it can be.

The two of them haven't seen each other much since their bosses ramped up their response to the media circus, which means the topic of them has yet to be fully discussed; they happen to cross paths as they're both leaving separate interviews at Masrani's HQ in San Diego -- more info-gathering, for Owen; a debriefing, for Claire -- and decide to grab lunch together to catch up. Easier said than done, however, when they're greeted by a crowd of reporters at the front doorstep. Claire seems to ignore them well enough, and Owen follows her lead, carefully shouldering past men and women to clear a path. They're nearly in the clear when one persistent man stands in front of them, a digital recorder jammed in Claire's face.

"Ms. Dearing," he said. "Footage of you guiding the T-Rex out of its paddock has surfaced recently. Do you have any comment on your irresponsibility for unleashing not one, but two dangerous creatures on Isla Nublar? Or do you have anything you'd like to say in response to accusations that this video was manufactured by Masrani Global?"

Owen's not sure how Claire feels about the bullshit the guy just vomited out of his mouth -- she always did have one hell of a poker face -- but Owen, at least, steps between the two of them, annoyance seeping from every pore. "You want to get out of our way, sir."

The reporter continues to hound the two of them as Owen guides Claire away. "Ms. Dearing. Do you have any comment on naysayers stating your position as the park's lead asset manager was earned by sleeping with Simon Masrani? Any comment on rumors stating that the creature known as the Indominus Rex never existed, owing to the fact that the creature has never been seen, and that stories regarding its accidental release were invented to conceal your incompetence in maintaining the park's security? Any comment on--"

At around that point, Owen surprises the reporter by punching him, and he felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath his knuckles. He shakes out his hand, moving to guide Claire away again, when the reporter surprises him by jumping back to his feet and driving his fist into Owen's gut.

Things got a little out of hand, after that.

One broken nose (the reporter's), one bleeding nose (Owen's), two black eyes (one for each, though the reporter's was worse), a split lip (Owen's), a torn shirt (the reporter's), twenty bruised knuckles, and two citations for causing a public disturbance later, Owen finds himself at the wrong end of icy silence from Claire. She's brought them back to her apartment (which, by the way, is really nice, though Owen finds it difficult to compliment her digs in the face of her quiet rage) with hardly a word, and he's directed to sit at the kitchen counter.

Dirty, disheveled, and with a wadded-up napkin up his nose is not how he imagined himself in Claire Dearing's home. At length, he swallows his apprehension and finally breaks the silence. ]

Alright, go ahead. Tell me how pissed you are at me.

[ Claire has gone nonstop since they got off the island. She barely has time to breathe, barely time to think, to process, but she pushes forward and endures. She has no choice in the matter.

So for a while, it's good to be with Owen again. Her life has been lacking in any sort of normalcy or anchor for so long. Owen is straightforward, he's consistent, and... damn it, she's missed him. There's something reassuring about his presence at her back as she's facing down yet another mob of reporters.

But that all goes right out the fucking window the second he steps in front of her.

So now, here they are in her kitchen (and this is not how she envisioned inviting Owen over to her apartment at all). He's well-aware he's fucked up- hard not to be, given the fact that Claire has been silently fuming at him from the moment he and the reporter were finally separated.

She fishes in her drawers for a rag and is in the process of wetting it in the kitchen sink when Owen finally speaks, and her gaze snaps in his direction, cold and furious. ]

I have to tell you? Here I thought you would have figured it out by now.

[ It comes out clipped and angry. She wads the rag in the hand and squeezes it, presumably to get the extra water out, but after a moment her grip becomes white-knuckled, and she rounds on him at last ]

What the hell were you thinking? Were you trying to add to the feeding frenzy? That little stunt you pulled is going to be on the front of every gossip magazine for weeks!

[ Yeah. There it is.

Owen rolls his eyes, sighing, as he pulls the napkin from his nose. He's pretty sure the bleeding has stopped by now -- and when he presses the tips of his fingers to his nostril, he's proven right. He tosses the wad into the nearest trash can. ]

The guy was way out of line.

And you're right. I just gave that dick one hell of a story. He'll be thanking me in a day or two.

They're always out of line, Owen. It's always about who I'm sleeping with or how I'm responsible for what happened. They want me to snap at them.

Did you seriously think you were defending me back there? If you thought that was bad, now it's going to be ten times worse because you couldn't keep yourself in check.

And I swear to God, if you roll your eyes at me like that again, I will re-bloody your nose.

[ He almost does it again. Just to test her. Their relationship, such as it was, was always a bit of give and take, after all.

But maybe now's not a good time to test that theory. He does, at least, huff out another breath. ]

I can handle whatever mud they sling at me. It's different when they sling it at you.

Where the hell have you been the last several weeks? They've been slinging mud at me since day one. Just because it doesn't get printed doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

If you started a fight with every reporter who insinuated I was screwing my boss, there wouldn't be any left.

Edited 2015-08-04 04:08 (UTC)

[ He snorts. ]

Maybe I ought to, then.

That's not the point, Owen.

The point is you stepped out of line and I'm going to have to bear the brunt of that.

I'm pretty sure I'm the one that punched the guy. If anything, they'll come after this mysterious dude who came out of nowhere and decked a reporter.

That’s not how it works! You’re not the one in the middle of all of this. You’re not the one in the public eye. I have to face those people every goddamn day, with lists of what I can and can’t say, things I can and can’t do, because they’ll reflect badly on the company, because it makes us liable, because it makes me out to be anything less than the martyr I’m marketed as. I’ve had to take the long way home- sometimes I drive around for hours, hours Owen, so they don’t follow me.

Maybe they’ll go after you, for a time, but at the end of the day, it’s not your job to talk to them. It’s mine. I’m going to have to do damage control with a smile on my face and act like I have never wanted to punch every single one of those people every time they ask me if I was sleeping with Simon when I haven’t even gotten the chance to grieve him yet.

So don’t-- don’t sit there and act like you did me a favor.

[ He takes in the tirade in silence -- mostly out of surprise. There was a time before the Indominus when the scariest creature on the island was an angry Claire Dearing, and now he remembers exactly why.

He's silent for a long while, before he stands from his seat, coming around to stand beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder -- lightly, giving her a chance to pull away. ]

Claire-- [ He falters, eyes wandering a little as he tries to gather his wits again. ]

--shit. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.

[ She tenses slightly at his touch. She’s still mad, furious even, but she doesn’t want to be mad at him. She’s mad at the world. At their circumstances. At a whole host of other things. She lets the rag drop into the bottom of the sink with a dull, wet thud, and just… leans, resting her shoulder against his chest. ]

No. I’m sorry. I never meant for you to get tangled up in this mess.

[ Carefully, he wraps his arms around her, drawing her in for a proper hug. ]

That wasn't your fault, either. I should've realized what a crappy move I was pulling, but I sorta-- lost it. Obviously.

[ She settles into his embrace surprisingly easily, considering the way she was glaring daggers at him earlier. ]

Obviously. [ It comes out dry as the desert, but there’s the slightest hint of amusement on her face. ] But I will admit that, for a moment, it was really satisfying to watch you beat the tar out of that guy.

Satisfying to beat the tar out of the guy.

[ He pulls away, dropping his hands to his sides. ]

--If you need me to, I dunno. Issue an apology or whatever. I can do that. I won't mean it, but I can lie.

[ She’d really rather he didn’t pull away. It’s… oddly lonely, now that they’ve separated. Still, she shrugs, fishing for the rag in the sink again. ]

It really comes down to what the higher-ups want to do about it, but I’ll let them know you offered.

[ She turns to him, rag in on hand, the other finding its way to his shoulder, and she leans in to start wiping some of the dirt and dried blood from his face. ]

[ He reaches up to take the rag from her. ]

I can take care of this on my own, you know.

[ She makes no move to let it go, and regards him levelly. ] I’m sure you can.

[ He returns the stare, challenging, but--

Well. Owen, to his credit, knows a losing battle when he sees one, and he sighs. ]

You want me to sit down?

[ She motions towards the kitchen table with her free hand ] Be my guest.

Edited 2015-08-04 22:40 (UTC)

[ He takes a seat as directed, huffing out another breath. He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. Nothing broken, which is nice. Apparently the reporter's skull wasn't thick enough to crack his fingers on. ]

Maybe I oughta hang around. Make guys think twice about asking sleezy questions.

[ She pulls up a chair next to him and resumes wiping the grime from his face.

At his suggestion, she pauses, biting her lower lip. ] I don't really think that's a decision either of us can make.

Isn't it? I mean, we're both adults. The only one that can stop me from palling around with you is you.

[ She motions to herself ] Face of the company, remember? And you're the guy who just beat up a reporter.

What, they're controlling your personal life now, too?

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