Together for Survival (Part Two)
Well, I might have lied. I said this story was going to be two parts, but guess what? It ended up being longer than I expected (again). So now, it’s officially going to be three parts. Well, at least three. Actually, you know what? I’m not even going to confirm how many chapters it will be. It will just be however long it ends up being.
Anyways, here is Part Two:
Owen brings Claire inside his bungalow, where she collapses rather gracelessly onto his couch. The inside of his bungalow is surprisingly clean, and not nearly the chaotic mess she would have expected. It’s actually quite… cozy. The afternoon sunlight reflects off the lake outside and filters through the windows. There’s a small kitchen towards the back, the couch, a small television and some sort of old gaming console nestled in the front corner, and a door to what she assumes is his bedroom off to the left.
Owen disappears for a moment, and then comes back with a blanket and a pillow. He carefully tucks the blanket around her and positions the pillow under her head, brushing a stray bright red strand of hair from her face. Her eyelids flutter shut, and if she notices his fingertips lingering on her skin a few seconds longer than necessary, she doesn’t say anything about it.
He walks away again, and returns with a glass of water and a thermometer. She wordlessly accepts the thermometer from his extended hand and slips it between her lips while he crouches down beside her. When it beeps a few seconds later, he pulls the thermometer from her lips and reads the temperature it displays. 101.7º.
“Hey Claire,” he says softly, his brow furrowed. She opens her eyes, her head throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat. “You’ve got a pretty high fever. I’ve got some cold medicine that will bring your temperature down and might make you feel a little better, but sometimes it can be better to just let the fever run it’s course and cook out whatever bug is making you sick. It’s your choice.”
She contemplates this for a moment, readjusting the blanket around her. She feels awful, (probably worse than that time when she was twelve and got sick after Karen had dared her to stay outside in the rain all night long) but she also knows Owen has a valid point about the fever.
“I’ll just go without taking anything, for now,” she decides. Owen nods and hands her the glass of water. She takes a few small sips and sets it down on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“If you need anything, just ask,” he says, and stands back up. She nods and then closes her eyes, while Owen gives her one last lingering look that speaks volumes about how much he cares for her. As he turns to leave, she whispers softly.
“Thank you.” She doesn’t know if he hears it or not.
Maybe being sick isn’t so bad, she decides, if she has Owen there to take care of her.
When Claire opens her eyes again, Owen is nowhere to be seen. Several hours must have passed because the sun is setting, giving the room a warm orange glow. A mug of tea sits steaming on the coffee table in front of her. She gathers it into her hands, soaking in the warmth emanating from the cup. She recognizes from the scent that it’s her favorite brand of tea, and absently wonders why Owen even has tea, because she knows for a fact Owen isn’t a tea drinker. She doesn’t dwell on the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he got it specifically for her. She takes a sip and realizes that not only did he remember what kind of tea was her favorite, but he also remembered exactly how she liked it. A drop of milk and one spoonful of honey. She isn’t quite sure why, but Claire is inexplicably confused about why he would remember something like that, and yet touched that he did. Owen Grady certainly has a way of getting her emotions all mixed up.
She lifts her head from the pillow as she hears the door open, and Owen walks in. He smiles at her across the room.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty is finally awake,” he teases. “And here I thought I was going to have to kiss you.”
She nearly chokes, and of course her traitorous mind has to play the image of him bending over her and kissing her awake. Half of Claire’s mind is suddenly wondering whether he is completely joking, or if there is some measure of seriousness behind his statement and he really does want to kiss her. The other half is contemplating whether she wants him to have been joking or not.
Owen can’t be sure, since her face is already flushed with fever, but she might be blushing.
“Are you hungry at all?” he quickly changes the subject. She looks relieved and nods.
“Yeah, a little.” She lays her head back down on the pillow, and he just now remembers that she’s still dressed in her office clothes.
“And I’ll get you some different clothes to sleep in. Those can’t be comfortable.” She actually hasn’t noticed, because she practically lives in skirts and jackets. Now that he mentions it, though, it doesn’t make for the ideal sleepwear. Owen disappears into his bedroom and then comes back out a minute later, dropping a Navy t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants into Claire’s lap. “You can change in the bathroom,” he offers. “It’s right over there.” Her eyes follow his hand as he points to a door next to the kitchen. She disentangles herself from the blanket, gathers the clothes up in her arms, and heads to the bathroom while Owen walks over to the kitchen to make something for dinner.
He’s staring idly and the ingredients in his refrigerator when Claire emerges from the bathroom.
“Hey Owen,” She sounds miserably congested. “Do you have any cleanex?”
“Yeah, sure.” He turns around, which might have been a mistake, because he can’t even breathe looking at her. Somehow, even with her eyes watering and hair messed up from sleep, she looks gorgeous. The fever has tinted her cheeks and lips a very enticing shade of pink. And seeing her in his clothes did things to him he couldn’t explain. His t-shirt hangs loosely from her small frame, exposing her collarbones and the majority of her left shoulder. The elastic band of his sweatpants is far too loose on her, riding dangerously low on her hips. It’s taking all his willpower not to stare. He’s pretty sure he’s failing miserably. In retrospect, maybe he should’ve just let her sleep in her skirt and jacket.
“Oh, right.” He shakes his head lightly and blinks. “I’ll go get them.” He busies himself looking for the cleanex, somewhat grateful for the distraction. She wraps herself back in the blanket on the couch, and a few minutes later a box of tissues is deposited in her lap. She grabs a TV remote and idly flips through channels to distract herself from her pounding head and that the clothes she is wearing smell so comfortingly like Owen.
She’s on her third round of flipping through the same five channels when Owen comes into the living room bearing two bowls of chicken noodle soup. He passes a bowl to her and slides onto the couch next to her. They eat in silence as Claire flips through all of the channels again. He really lives in the middle of nowhere, and the channel selection is truly pitiful.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” He ends up suggesting.
“Sure.” She doesn’t actually care what they watch, because she just feels like sleeping anyways, but they decide on Star Wars. They are barely ten minutes into the movie when Claire’s eyelids won’t stay open anymore, and Owen wordlessly pulls her down so that she’s laying across the couch with her head in his lap. He doesn’t think it takes her more than a minute to fall asleep, and he takes the opportunity run his fingers through the ends of her hair, watching the way her lips part as she exhales softly.
It’s only when the credits start rolling that Owen realizes he’s spent more time mesmerized by Claire sleeping in his lap than he has actually watching the movie. It’s after midnight, and when he shuts the TV the room is bathed in darkness. He can still feel the heat practically radiating off of Claire, so he grabs the thermometer from the coffee table and gently nudges Claire awake. She mumbles something unintelligible and tries to bury her face in the blanket. When Owen pulls the material back and holds the thermometer in front of her face, though, she lets him slip it between her lips without protest.
The thermometer beeps and the small screen lights up, giving off a pale blue glow.
“You’ve still got a pretty high fever. You should probably take something for it now.” He suggests, brushing her bangs back softly.
“Okay, Doctor.”
He consoles himself with the thought that she can’t be too bad off if she’s still joking. He gently lifts her head from his lap, slides out from under her, and re-positions the pillow so that she’ll be as comfortable as possible. He brings her the cold medicine and a glass of water, and she swallows both appreciatively.
He knows from experience that spending the night on the couch isn’t exactly the picture of comfort, so he suggests that she take his bed and he can sleep on the couch. She shakes her head adamantly.
“I’m serious, Claire,” he insists.
“’M good here.” She doesn’t even open her eyes, just pulls the blanket tighter around her.
“Come on. Don’t make me carry you.” Either she thinks he’s joking or she’s already falling back to sleep, because she offers no sort of response until she feels strong arms slide under her and lift her from the couch in a dizzying burst of motion. She lets out a high pitched squeal. It would be a lot easier to put up more of a resistance, though, if she had more energy and if being wrapped in his arms with the gentle sway of his footsteps didn’t feel so good.
He’d scooped her up blankets and all, because she’s still wearing his too loose pants that might fall off with even the slightest pull, and he’s not sure what he would do if that happened. He’s using nearly all of his self-control as is.
He doesn’t bother turning the lights on, deftly navigating the house in the dark. He gently lays her down on his bed, tucking the sheets around her. The sheets are soft and cool against her burning skin, and she can already feel the irresistible pull of sleep because the scent of his blankets screams Owen, and in her mind Owen means safe.
Owen tucks her hair behind her ear and admires how the moonlight shining through the window plays over her delicate features. He is inexplicably filled with the irresistible urge to crawl under the sheets beside her, wrap her in his arms and tuck her tightly into his chest. He’s already kind of forced her to stay in his house and sleep in his bed, though, and he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. He pushed down the desire and stands up from the edge of the bed. He considers brushing a kiss to her forehead, but decides against it because he’s pretty sure she’s already asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her.
As he turns to leave, though, her fingertips softly catch the inside of his wrist and she whispers a single word through the darkness and silence.