Title: Downtime
Fandom: Jurassic World
Rating: G
Length: ~1600 words
Notes: Owen/Barry, set pre-movie. Thanks to mergatrude for read-through.
Summary: Owen keeps catching Barry watching him.

Downtime

Blue and Delta are fidgety this morning, and Owen's not in the best of moods either after his crapfest of a first (and final) date with Claire last night. Plus, she refused the tequila shots so he had to drink both sets. From the catwalk, he takes the raptors through their routine, stares down Blue until she bridles and grudgingly submits, and then he glances over to find Barry watching him, narrow-eyed.

He's not watching the raptors. He's watching Owen. He's supposed to be watching the damned raptors.

Owen wraps it up, gives the girls their treats and stalks toward Barry on the landing. Oh, sure, Barry's holding the logbook, now. He's got his pen poised, and he says, like always, "What have you got?"

"Eight, five, six, four," says Owen, rating his babies' emotional equilibrium on a scale of one to ten in order: Blue, Charlie, Delta, Echo. Anything above a six is cause for concern.

Barry records the figures, presumably next to his own assessment of same and slides the notebook into his back pocket. That's the deal: Owen runs show time; Barry keeps score, makes his own quiet appraisals for comparison purposes. Only that doesn't explain why Barry was watching him.

"You okay, man?" says Barry. "You should drink some water. Or Gatorade. Get some electrolytes in your system."

"I'm fine," snaps Owen, stiffening. His head comes up, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he were an inch or two taller—or that Barry would lose a couple. He couldn't say exactly why being eye to eye bugs him, but it's bugging the hell out of him today. "You were watching me. What's the matter, you think I'm going to trip and fall off the catwalk just 'cause of a crappy hangover?"

"No, I think you're being an idiot. Relax." Barry raises a calm, placating hand, and Owen inhales deeply and shakes himself.

Barry's right. He's being stupid. They're friends and co-workers. The raptors are their joint responsibility. Barry wouldn't critique him like that, undermine him—it's not how they do things. Owen's just not thinking straight because of the pounding behind his eyeballs. Damn Claire and her itineraries, he was really hoping to spend last night with someone who could actually see him as an equal. Any time he's hooked up with a tourist or one of the guides, she's been all starry-eyed like he's a celebrity, and after a while that's just fucking hard work, pun intended.

He kind of likes how Claire gives him shit. Pity she's such a tight-wound ball of rules and disapproval.

He rubs his face, shrugs an apology to Barry and goes to get a Gatorade from the vending machine.


*


The next day it happens again. He catches Barry watching him during the show, alert, observant. Their eyes actually lock for a second, and Owen's brain trips, keeps him staring back until Delta hisses and he realizes with a start that the girls have moved from their set places. He gets the show back under control just in time, but it throws him. He's dicing with death here every single day. He can't afford lapses like that.

So he goes to Barry afterward, says, "Six, four, four, three. I want to talk to you."

They go into the office, and Barry slouches against the windowsill, sun on his back, and waits. Owen stands in the middle of the room, unable to settle. He should sprawl in his chair, toss a ball like he usually does, make some jokes, but he can't. And he doesn't want to ask outright, Why were you watching me?—it sounds paranoid—so he makes himself think. Off the top of his head he's got two explanations: either Barry has reason to think the show's got more dangerous, and he's on the alert for trouble, or he's after Owen's job.

He'd make a good pack leader for the raptors. He's got that deep voice, natural authority when he chooses to exercise it, and they're used to his presence. He handles them a lot when they're restrained. And he cares about them almost as much as Owen does.

Plus he doesn't back down from a challenge. Owen hasn't heard the full story of how a biology professor from Reims, France, ended up in the Cameroons trying to stop rhino poachers for five years, but he knows that kind of thing takes guts, and it wasn't fear that brought Barry to the Park; it was curiosity. I wanted to see the other side of extinction, he'd said. Creation instead of destruction, this time.

But for all that Barry has everything it would take to usurp Owen, he gives no sign he's mounting a challenge. Relaxed against the window, he's more like a basking cat than a dog preparing to fight for dominance.

Owen goes on a hunch. "Let me see the logbook."

"Why?" Barry doesn't move a muscle, but his eyebrows flick up. They go over the trends together, once Barry's charted them on the computer, compare them to weather patterns and other environmental factors looking for correlations, but Owen's never asked to see the raw data before.

He gives Barry his alpha stare, wide-eyed and steely. "Now."

Barry sighs, shrugs and throws it over, and Owen scans the numbers, looking for whatever it is that's got Barry on the alert. There are dates down the side and nine columns, all the sevens crossed in the French style. Wait, nine columns.

There should be eight, two for each raptor. "What's the ninth column?"

"It's nothing," says Barry.

Owen employs the Stare again, and Barry rolls his eyes.

"The ninth column is for the alpha." He shrugs one shoulder. "Claire asked me to monitor you, to see if your state of mind affects the rest of the pack. It's good science."

Owen slaps the notebook down on his desk. "You could have told me I was being rated!"

"That would be bad science," says Barry, deadpan.

Owen scowls. "So that's why you've been watching me," he says. "That's why you've been looking."

Barry stops breathing. Then he tilts his head to the side. "That's one reason."

His tone is still casual, but his whole body is on alert now, tension bunched beneath the surface. Owen is an expert at reading animal reactions, and he can't mistake what he sees. His mouth goes dry.

"Gay?"

"Bisexuel."

The challenge in Barry's gaze isn't that of an aspiring alpha. It's pride and defiance and human desire. And written across it all, most especially in his arms which are loosely folded across his chest, resignation. Barry is sure Owen's not interested. He only admitted his desire because Owen called him out, and because they're friends who trust each other with their lives.

But the thing is, any idiot can see Barry's six feet and change of hotness, and he's exactly what Owen's been craving: someone who sees him. Plus, Owen makes it a point of honor never to shy away from a challenge. In his line of work, it's a matter of survival. His blood starts racing in his veins. "I've never even kissed a guy."

Barry's full lips quirk. "That's obvious. Look, forget it. I don't want to—"

Owen leans over the couch and drops the blinds on the big internal window between the office and the rest of the staff-only area. One sharp tug on the cord, and they're alone.

Barry unfolds his arms, drops his hands to the edge of the windowsill, still watching him, still backlit by the sun. It's impossible to make out his expression now that window's the only source of light in the room.

"Grady." It sounds like a warning.

Owen shakes his head, walks up to him and kisses him, just takes Barry's head in his hands and goes for it, riding his own determination and the low-burning restlessness he's been carrying for weeks now.

For a few seconds, Barry submits, and his mouth is big and hot, and Owen's adrenaline turns to excitement in a flash. He hadn't known, damn, he's wasted so much time. But then Barry shoves him, not far but enough that Owen's excitement twists with alarm—that he's fucked up, misread the situation and it's going to turn ugly. That he's wrecked their friendship. That suddenly seems worse than anything.

Barry's breathing hard, his voice a low soft thing. He says, "Take it easy, man. You're not my alpha." And then he pulls Owen back and kisses him, sweet this time and sexy, and Owen shudders and surges forward, starts tugging at Barry's clothes, relieved and helplessly turned on, desperate to touch him.

"Jesus, why didn't you say something sooner?" he says.

"We're friends," says Barry. "That was all you wanted. It was enough. Shh—" His hands spread across Owen's back, making him sweat, and the kiss passes between them like a conversation, back and forth.


*


The next day, the raptors are almost docile. Even Blue is only a four. Owen stands on the catwalk, calm and confident, satisfaction like a hum under his skin, and directs the show, and the girls watch him curiously. Delta raises her snout and sniffs the air, and the four of them chirrup to each other.

"That's fine," Owen tells them. "You can gossip all you want. Just keep it to yourselves, okay?" He throws them each a treat.

From the landing, Barry meets his eye and grins, big, bright and happy, and something turns over in Owen's chest.

He smirks at the raptors. "On second thoughts, tell whoever you like."


END