aut-with-tism

[aut-with-tism]

Hello I hope it’s okay to ask, how do find Claire Dearing as an autistic person? I’m not trying to hate, but I hope you can enlighten me☺️!

you’re always welcome to ask me about my analysis!! this is going to be somewhat long but that’s because I want to be somewhat thorough

autism is most strongly defined by: social difficulty and repetitive behaviors. to be diagnosed you need to show notable difficulties in maintaining relationships and show signs of restricted and repetitive interests, ways of thinking, and actions. claire has strong evidence for all of this!

claire is bad at relationships on all levels. she brushes off her nephews, she accidentally makes karen cry, she frustrates franklin and zia, she struggles to comfort maisie, and owen is his own category of dysfunctional. and it’s never for a lack of love. she’s just… Bad at them in a way that reflects the social aspect of autism.

for instance, she’s Bad at reading how people will react. she expects the boys to be excited at being at the park even if she isn’t with them. she expects karen to be fine with her assistant babysitting the boys. she expects franklin and zia to be on board with her next vigilante mission. she doesn’t catch any of the non-spoken cues that what she’s doing is a complete social no-no until they’re outright telling her it is. this shows a mix of two major aspects of autistic communication: she can’t read subtle cues well and she doesn’t have a strong grasp of the unspoken rules of relationships

and speaking of unspoken rules, the date is a PERFECT example of how she is living in her own little world. she brings an itinerary. there’s no thought of whether or not that might be weird and she’s actually offended when it is seen as weird. it makes sense to her. to a neurotypical, a first date is about getting to know someone and taking it very casual. to claire, she sees the date as a trial and she’s like I know the perfect way to maximize the benefits of this without any thought about how it might come off

she’s also pretty emotionally stunted in a lot of ways. part of autism is often difficulty understanding one’s own emotions and being able to verbalize them. when comforting maisie, she becomes very “corny” because she’s likely trying to copy the kind of cheesy stuff you’d find in a self help book or movie. when the boys need comforting, she just lies. she never says “I love you” back to owen. most of her emotions around dinosaurs are approached through a few layers of hiding. she doesn’t say “I feel guilty about what I did to the dinosaurs” she goes “I need to save them because well I just need to” and “the first time you see them it’s like magic”.

this ties into masking. masking is a form of acting where you try Very Hard to come off as neurotypical. this is essentially what her Corporate Persona is. the woman who tries to impress the investors and eli is not claire dearing the woman. that is claire The Manager. there is such a stark difference between how claire acts with eli vs how she immediately starts acting around owen. and that’s the difference between a woman who’s masking and a woman who isn’t. claire who is masking is nice and approachable and nods politely while smiling where necessary. claire who isn’t is brash about saying “your dino daughter is alive and you need to save her with me” and she laughs loudly and rolls her eyes when she thinks you’re being stupid.

but claire is also deeply repetitive and strict. when masrani asks about how the park is doing, she quotes numbers. emotions can’t be measured but numbers can. she looks at him like he’s lost his mind when he’s goes “you can see it in their eyes”.

claire LOVES rules. at first. she loves following protocols and defers to simon’s orders when he says not to shut down the park. she loves writing strict to-do lists for fun outings like dates. spreadsheets are her love language. but the double edged sword is autism is that it’s about extremes. when she DISLIKES rules she HATES THEM. she becomes a vigilante terrorist who defies government rulings and steals sick dinosaurs. claire is unable to be neutral about… well anything. which is a core trait of autism.

“justice seeking autism” or “justice sensitivity” is a colloquial term for how autism is highly associated with extremely politically motivated people. autism makes it nearly impossible to be just neutral about something you find unfair. claire is such a good case study of this. she cannot be normal about the dinosaurs. she sees what she perceives as an injustice (not helping the dinosaurs) and she starts a grass roots organization that protests in front of congress then trespasses to illegally transport the dinosaurs to a new safe location. And when that fails, she spends the next 4 years doing non-government actions to help them. she is not at all concerned about legalities because it’s the right thing to do in her mind.

and speaking of the dinosaurs… that’s an extremely fixed interest. autism is most famous for our Obsessive Fixations on things called “special interests”. mine is very clearly jurassic world as a whole and claire dearing specifically. a special interest is the interest to top all interests. it’s not just an interest… it is your Life. it’s what you wake up and think about every day. you might start to neglect your health (like claire doing dangerous missions) or your family’s needs (like how she split from owen over it in fk or how she missed franklin and zia’s needs). I strongly believe running the park became her Special Interest and that translates into helping the dinosaurs later. because special interests aren’t just things like trains and puppies. they can be bands. music genres. the store target. theyre just whatever an autistic person becomes obsessively interested in for extended periods of time (my last fixation before jurassic world was 7 years of talking about the same TV show every day. and it ended about 3 years into that…)

stimming! stimming is self stimulating behavior. this is the official word for the stereotypical autistic hand flapping and bouncing but that’s not all it is. it can also be rubbing objects, repeating phrases, swaying back and forth, pacing, etc. it’s natural for everyone to do some of these but autistics do them at elevated rates. i’ve gif’d a few times she’s done this in the first movie! but i can actually point out her doing it in All of the movies. she has a habit of rubbing her hands together when stressed/nervous for example. you can see this when she’s talking to owen in the bar, when meeting benjamin lockwood, and after rescuing the baby nasuto.

believe it or not, this is just the cliff notes of my Autism Analysis. things like PTSD and gender also play huge roles in how autism presents. autism is strongly correlated with exaggerating PTSD traits such as social isolation, impulsive tendencies, and disordered sleep. even having autism makes one more prone to developing PTSD because contrary to popular belief, not all people who experience trauma will develop PTSD. gender plays a role because girls (and i do include tgirls and gender diverse people here) are often way less likely to be diagnosed and are more likely to experience harsher punishments for showing autistic traits. the diagnostic gap is about 3-4:1 (3/4 boys for every 1 girl) after years of advocacy by feminists to help un-aided autistic girls. because of this, "girl autism" is way more likely to be associated with masking, burn out, and being "a little quirky". this is all to say, if you gave a boy and girl the exact same traits, the girl is 3x less likely to get her correct diagnosis. you can even see this occur in fandom spaces where male characters are more widely accepted as autistic than female characters

[aut-with-tism]

thinking about beautiful claire again and how she has such an autistic way of interacting with people

her version of small talk is stilted and in service of a wider goal (introducing herself to eli, talking with investors). it has the vibe that she spent hours looking in the mirror and smiling while rehearsing Answers To That Question. she does not care about maintaining any level of connection further than what is strictly needed to achieve her Goal. sometimes you can see the Real her slipping out like with masrani where she’s a little snarky but there’s those attempts to reorient herself and get Back On Topic so that she can reach The Goal. there is no interest whatsoever in the social aspect of small talk which is building connection/rapport.

which is completely contrasted to how she acts when there are no expectations set on her (first control room scene, general interactions with owen, dominion opening with zia and franklin). she goes from docile lamb to opinionated wolf in an instant. unmasked claire is deeply argumentative and convinced that she is right and she can prove it (autistic sense of black and white justice)! so much so that she steamrolls relationships that she cares about (karen, owen, franklin). understanding how to truly relate to others is a work in progress even in dominion (autistic misunderstanding of social cues). dominion is truly just Unmasked Claire in her full glory. she gives the rudest introduction to kayla ever and is entirely off-putting as she tries to steamroll her into joining the search party for her daughter but she is also just so earnest that, well, you’ve gotta help the poor woman.

[aut-with-tism]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55860919/chapters/159964945

She jolts awake to the sound of a ship horn blaring, panic coursing through her veins as she tries to scramble away from the heavy warmth pinning her in place. Her legs kick out beneath her. They catch something in doing so and hands reach out to grab her; pulling her towards them, dragging her away.

A scream crawls up her throat before dying out on her tongue. Thick and ashy in her mouth, fire lapping at her lungs. 

The island.

“Claire, come on.”

Owen. He sounds so far away - as though there’s something between them, stopping him from saving her. And just like that, she’s in the gyrosphere again, moments away from her death. His knife pries at the door, but it refuses to open. Her eyes fall shut.

He calls her name again, she thinks. Muted and barely audible over the sound of the blood pumping in her ears and the shouts and whines and clinks of all that is around them. A hand tightens around her own; too gentle and kind to be anyone’s other than his. 

A part of her knows that only he or Zia would go through this much effort to rescue her. Knows they are two of the select few she trusts. That trust begs her to listen to him when he tells her to duck her head down with a forcefulness she doesn’t recognise.

She doesn’t come back up until he tells her it’s safe to. The pounding in her head only grows at the movement. Nausea sickly on her tongue. 

Hands shake in her lap, refusing to stop even when Owen reaches out to hold them in place. 

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure it out.” He tries. But there are still words that go unsaid and they haunt the silence they fall into. She fights the urge to pull her knees to her chest and curl up impossibly small, for she knows it would be in vain. 

He’s lying. They both know it. She just doesn’t quite know who he’s trying to convince more - her or himself.

Still, she finds herself clinging to his foolish hope with bitten fingernails and a childish grasp. Craves the safety of his lap; foreheads pressed together, breath hot against her nose and lips. Yearns whispers of reassurance as though this is but another nightmare and she will wake up any moment.

She bites down on her lip and waits for her hope to crumble.

At some point, she turns to stare out the window. The blur of trees and mountains they pass soothes her enough for her heart to stop hammering against her chest, even as the sun finally sinks in the distance. 

Like the gyrosphere.

But she’s no longer drowning and she’s not burned up on the island.

She’s alive. The beating of her heart and the cushioning of the seat behind her back tells her this, but the calloused hands squeezing hers rhythmically let her know. 

The smoke clears and she can finally see, can finally place the painstakingly familiar landscape. It makes her tense up again. 

“Owen?” She breathes, before trying again with a newfound sense of urgency and bitter betrayal, “Owen, this is Lockwood’s estate.”

Knuckles blanch around the steering wheel and teeth grit together painfully, “Son of a bitch.”   

They’re waved through the gates behind the countless trucks in front of them, driving along the dirt track until they pull to a stop. She almost misses the road sign on her right - a glimpse of hope in the growing darkness. She slaps at Owen’s shoulder, no longer trusting herself to speak.

“We hit that town, we call the cavalry, shut this down.” He nods in agreement, before a gun is pressed to his head and Wheatley steps into view. 

“You should’ve stayed on the island. Better odds.”

Then, there are more guns trained against them, and Owen lifts his hands in surrender. Her door is yanked open by a mercenary and she’s all but dragged out of the truck and thrown to the ground. Her wrists jolt at her attempt to catch herself, unable to hold back her cry. Owen calls out for her immediately.

“Stop it. Let her go, asshole!”

The sharp sound of metal hitting skin is instantly recognisable, and he slumps as Wheatley hits him with the butt of the gun. Her breath hitches. “Owen?”

“Take ‘em down and put them in a cell. I’ll sort Mills.” Wheatley orders, leaving them to be pushed and hauled down to the basement and shoved into the first empty cell they come across. They’re rough, but she can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when they don’t follow her in or keep her separate. The metal door clangs shut, leaving her alone with a semi-conscious Owen.

She’s by his side in an instant, thumbs brushing over the forming bruise above his left eyebrow. He hisses before leaning into the touch, “Hurts like a bitch.”

Murmuring her agreement, she pushes back memories of black eyes and cracked orbital sockets. Adrenaline still hums in her veins like electricity running through a livewire, but she tries to keep it contained as she pushes herself up and starts to wander.

The cell is big. Bigger than the trailer she lived in with her dad as a teenager; clearly intended to house dinosaurs and not humans. Still, the gaps between the bars aren’t big enough for her to slip through, and there’s no window or hatch for her to force open. 

Shoulders slump in defeat. There’s no way out.

“Hi, Claire.” She whips around to see Eli standing outside and the anger bubbles up inside, threatening to spill over. “I just wanted to come and apologise. I didn’t want to drag you into any of this, but it was the only way we could get the raptor-” 

She lunges before he’s finished his sentence. He’s quick to stumble backwards and out of reach, and she barely registers Owen’s arms around her waist, yanking her away from the bars. 

“-We needed it.”

“So, what?” Owen starts, “This is it? I mean, you’re a smart guy. You could’ve started a foundation, cured cancer, but instead you…what? Sell endangered species?”

“I saved these animals.” Eli argues. He says it so simply - as though he truly believes it. She thinks that scares her the most.

He betrayed a dying man for money. That’s the truth, so simply put. Has he not realised that? Can he not see that for what it is?

“Claire, I admire your idealism, but we both exploited these animals. At least I have the integrity to admit it,” She goes to argue, to defend herself and her actions, but he cuts her off, “You authorised the creation of the Indominus Rex. You exploited a living thing in a cage for money. How is that different? Huh?”

Her teeth find purchase in her lip, tearing at cracked flesh until the taste of blood overpowers everything else. Teeth, blood, screams.

“And you?” He turns to Owen. “The man who proved raptors can follow orders. You never thought about the applications of your research, Owen? How many millions a trained predator might be worth? You two, you’re the parents of the new world.”  

Owen’s jaw sets and she sees what’s going to happen before he does it. Eli’s arm pulled through the bars, pinned against one of them in a way that would make it easier to break. He would do it. He wants to, at least.

She’s almost disappointed when he steps away. Watches him carefully until she recognises the look in his eyes and realises he’s giving her the choice. She could kiss him.

Eli has barely started his next sentence when she grabs his tie and slams his face into the bars, glasses crushed against steel. He groans and falls pathetically. Laughably, almost.

(For a man playing such a dangerous game, he lacks basic instinct. Though, she supposes, that is why he has other people do his dirty work for him. Coward.)

Whatever he says next falls on deaf ears. She knows their fate; knows they are to die in this miserable cell and there is nothing to be done about it. Her only regret is that Karen will never know, never understand what happened.

She lowers herself onto the bench and buries her head in her hands, digging her nails into her temple until the pressure on the outside matches that inside. Her breath trembles. 

“Claire?”

Owen crouches down in front of her, reaching out to her. She bats him away before she can flinch at the gesture. 

Eli’s words echo in her mind. He was right about one thing; they both share blame in this. He was foolish - driven by greed and personal gain - but, then again, so was, is, she. They’re no different to each other.

She thinks back to the aftermath of the park, when it seemed to be the only thing broadcasted on the news and she couldn’t leave the hotel without a swarm of reporters harassing her for a statement, an admission. She refused to give it, at first. Not because she disagreed with them - she knew it was her fault and knew how important it was for her to admit that - but because she hoped that Owen could be right. That she did what she thought was best based on biased, restricted information.

It didn’t magically fix things, but it did make her guilt almost manageable. Made it so she could fall asleep at night, even if she were to be awoken shortly after to nightmares and terrors.

He asked her, once, if she’d do it again, knowing what she does now. Her ‘no’ had been immediate, and he told her that was all he ever needed to know to believe she was a good person in a bad situation. 

She doesn’t think she believes him, anymore.

Everything she was on the island, everything she became…she hasn’t changed. Not enough. Not really.

She still hides behind the mask she’s carefully crafted, knowing she doesn’t know who she is without it. She’s still selfish and greedy and, as much as she’d like to change, she doesn’t know how to stop that. She doesn’t even try.

A tear rolls down her cheek, splashing onto the concrete floor beneath her. Owen doesn’t say anything.

“Do you remember the first time you saw a dinosaur?” She dares to ask, voice far too shaky, “First time you see them, it’s like…a miracle. You read about them in books, you see the bones in museums, but you don’t really believe it. They’re like myths.”

There’s two triceratops in the cell opposite. A mother and her baby. The baby groans and grunts and whines, desperate for escape, before it nestles against its mother and settles. 

She thinks of the infants at the park - without mothers to comfort them, without any understanding of the world they were thrust into. Like mice in cages running on their wheels. No idea of the cycle they are to suffer, unaware of the choice taken from them, of the life they deserved to have.

“And then you see…the first one alive.”

“This is not your fault.” Owen tells her. Soft and earnest in ways she does not deserve. She’s quick to shake her head at him, quick to remind him of the truth.

“But it is.” 

“No,” He presses, “This one’s on me. I showed ‘em the way.” 

She looks up at him and blinks. It feels as though she’s seeing him for the first time - truly seeing him for all that he is. An honest man burdened by the lies fed to him and riddled with the guilt of knowing they weren’t truths in the first place. It strikes at something within her. A burning, twisting feeling that claws at her insides and settles heavily on her chest.

His head tilts as he watches her. He’s smarter than he acts; she knows that while she has given up all hope, he has been searching for the light in the darkness. 

He’ll find one, if there is such a thing. He always knows how to see the best.

“We’re getting out of here.” He promises.

This time, she believes him.

[aut-with-tism]

Universal was to afraid of what they could do together

[aut-with-tism]

Bryce Dallas Howard and DeWanda Wise on Claire and Kayla’s first meeting.

[aut-with-tism]

doodling

[aut-with-tism]

Drowning isn’t unfamiliar.

That thought comes to mind with a twisted sense of nostalgia, pitifully bittersweet. The ghost of a hand twists in her hair, holding her down and keeping her head under. 

The water level rises and she knows how this goes. Knows to take a deep breath right as she’s fully submerged. 

She could almost smile.

But she doesn’t. Familiarity does nothing to make it any less terrifying when her ears pop and her lungs start to spasm. When she doesn’t know how much longer she can hold her breath for, but she knows what’ll happen if she doesn’t. 

But she didn’t die then, and she refuses to die now. Not like this. 

Getting out of the gyrosphere is a blur - one that makes her feel like she’s drowning all over again. She remembers heavy limbs and feeble kicks. Head pounding, hope depleting; born in a cage and destined to die in one, too. 

She remembers contemplating death. Remembers wondering whether it would be more peaceful if she gave into it, breathing it in and succumbing to whatever followed. 

And then, she was breaking the surface. Breathing in simultaneously too early and too late, coughing and flailing in an animalistic attempt to live. Owen’s hand grips at her shirt, keeping her above the waves. That, too, is familiar in its own right. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I promise. I got you.”

He holds her with such caution. Looks at her with such concern. Eyes wide and wary as he begs for her to say something, say anything. To look at him, to talk to him, to breathe.

But she can’t. 

(She hasn’t in so long that she almost thinks she’s forgotten how to.)

He all but drags her to the shore and hauls her up onto the beach. Sand under her fingertips, water lapping at her waist. Perhaps, if she didn’t know better, she’d think it some fever dream instead of the living nightmare that’s actuality. The same one she’s had for days. Weeks. Months. Years.

The clock resets itself.

She’s done this once, already - she can’t do it again. She can’t.

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

A sob claws its way up her throat, threatening to escape. Her eyes sting. The second betrayal of the day.

She sits up suddenly, ignoring the way the world spins around her. The realisation hits that, somewhere along the way, four became three. “Where’s Zia?”

She knows the answer, already. Knows the way her stomach churns. Knows the way guilt settles heavily on her chest all too well. If it weighs her down any more, she’ll be six feet under. But maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. 

She bites down on her lip in a vain attempt to keep it all in - be it the darkness shrouding her, or the white-hot nausea that bubbles up inside, threatening to spill over. Eli had looked her right in the eye and he lied to her.

It was a lie.

It was all a lie.

Grabbing a handful of sand, she tosses it back into the sea pathetically. Zia could be dead (or worse; a lone woman amidst all male traffickers may as well be a death sentence) and it’s all her fault. For dragging her into this. For trusting a man wouldn’t abuse his power.

For loving her.

She can’t help the sob that escapes her, this time.

Gentle hands cup either side of her face, brushing away the tears that fall. A kindness undeserved. She doesn’t have to look to know it’s Owen. “She’s gonna be okay. We’ll find her, we’ll…she’ll be okay, Claire. But we gotta go. Now.”

It’s a promise he can’t keep, but she still finds herself clinging to his foolish hope. Still lets him pull her up off the ground and lead them out of there.

It’s almost reminiscent of two years back.

(If only she knew, then. If only she had any idea just what they were getting themselves into.

Masrani had called it an eventuality. Inevitable.

Indomitable.)

It’s strange. It’s almost the same, and yet it’s not. Her calves cramp and burn in a way that’s achingly familiar, but she’s wearing boots, not heels. She stumbles over herself more than once, but it’s sand and rocks beneath her feet, not mud and vines. Still, Owen refuses to let her fall. 

She wonders if he feels the same. If he closes his eyes and envisions leathery skin, torn apart and soaked with blood. If he’s also overpowered by non-existent rumbling in the distance and the memory of a ceiling crashing down on them.

His hand tightens around hers. She’s not sure if it’s an answer or a reassurance.

By the time they reach the dock, she’s breathless and near doubled over. Her shirt clings to her back - soaked with sweat - body trembling against whatever, whoever, presses into her. A sharp cry pierces her ears. Reminiscent of the sounds and calls that still haunt her dreams.

Blue.

Someone tenses next to her. Owen, she thinks. She goes to reach for him, return the favour, but the booming behind them stops her in her tracks.

“We need to get on that boat.”

And then, it’s autopilot. Automatic. Adrenaline. Survival. She runs as though there's a flare in her hand and a T-Rex behind her, still. And maybe, there is. She hasn’t stopped running since. 

She doesn’t look back until they’re on the boat. Truck jolting as she slams on the brakes, heart hammering in her chest.

The island’s gone. Shrouded in smoke and death. Everything that was once her home, burned to the ground. All because of her. Her.

And she should’ve died there with it.

She repeats that like a mantra, over and over as they sneak through the ship to try and find Zia and Blue. She shouldn’t have left. She shouldn’t have got up off the ground on Main Street those two years ago; instead just let herself wither away, decay into nothing more than bone and blurred memory.

(Or, maybe, she shouldn’t have gotten up off the ground two decades ago, curled up at her father’s feet; instead just let the man beat her to death - abandoned at the side of a road, nameless and forgotten.)

The mantra stops when she finally sees Zia. When she can finally breathe because Zia is, when all the tension drains from her body and yet another sob claws its way up her throat because Zia is there and she’s alive and- “Claire, come here.”

She does as she’s told. Let’s Zia manoeuvre her hands with gentle authority and firm tenderness until they’re putting pressure down on Blue’s wound. The raptor screeches. As though she knows that she did this. Guilt by association. 

She wonders if Blue knows that she’s the reason her sisters are dead, too. Wonders if she resents her for it. After all, how could she not?

She hates herself for it. It was worse when they first got off the island - when she’d let Owen curl around her in bed for him to startle awake not even an hour later, haunted by the deaths of the creatures he had raised. When he told her how Charlie had been right there in front of him, and then she wasn’t. When he’d call Lowery every so often and ask if there was any sign of Blue on the few security cameras that were still functioning.

An animal so smart would be stupid not to blame her.

When she volunteers to get blood for a transfusion, she tells herself it’s the least she can do. For Blue, who deserves to live. For Owen, who she’s hurt so much already. And for Zia, who she could never do enough for.

It’s just ironic when the dinosaur they need to get the blood from happens to be the T-Rex. Bitterly ironic.

They make it out of the shipping container with all of their limbs still intact, albeit trembling. Owen laughs breathily, grinning at the ridiculousness of it all, and she forces herself to smile back at him, swallowing the acidity that lingers on her tongue.

It comes with an urge. A desperation to jam her fingers down her throat until her eyes burn and she gags, shuddering up sour spit and flushing away her remorse.

She forces her eyes shut and digs her nails into the soft flesh of her palm until the skin cracks. 

If she was any less broken, perhaps it would let the light in. Perhaps the cracks would continue to grow until all the darkness seeped out of her, and then she could be rid of all she is and start anew. But, instead, the darkness just grows. Trickling between her fingers, dripping a trail on the floor. It follows wherever she goes.

Blue is still alive when they get back to the truck, by some small miracle. Owen’s shoulders sag with relief and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s not over yet. He already knows.

She hands the bag of blood off to Zia, trying to ignore the splotches of her own she’s left on the handle. For all the bloodshed, this is the first time that some of it’s hers.   

It isn’t nearly enough.

She thinks back to post-island. Week thirty. The switchblade Owen had given her months prior in the claims it was a gift (one that he just so happened to gift her the day after someone had tried to break into their hotel room, screaming her name and threatening a fate almost worse than death).

She thinks back to how she was reminded of being four and fourteen simultaneously - both finding her mother unconscious in the bathtub, and chasing what her mother had sought after, herself.

She doesn’t want that, again. And yet, she does.

Her lip quivers and she focuses on the velociraptor in front of her. Dying, but not yet dead. Just as she’s guilty, but she’s not yet liable. Awaiting trial for her sins.

Oh god, the trial.

Her body tenses on instinct. They haven’t survived this, yet, but if the fallout is anything like it was last, she doesn’t think she wants to. Doesn’t think she could make it through the brutality and perdition that it was, again.

They called her callous. Ruthless. Inhumane. They wouldn’t even let her speak to call them hypocrites. 

The sound of metal clinking together pulls her from her thoughts, eyes darting up to meet Zia’s. “She’s going to be okay.”

The weight of yet another death she caused by effect is lifted from where it hovered above her shoulders, waiting. A tear rolls down her cheeks. The start of a flood. 

Relief changes to realisation far too suddenly. It burns her cheeks and constricts her lungs. She doesn’t realise she isn’t breathing properly until hands guide her to the floor, brushing up and down her back and cupping at her cheeks. Someone tells her to look at them. Another tells her she’s okay, she’s safe, and she almost laughs at how wrong they are. 

She doesn’t know how to be either of those things. Not for herself, and certainly not for anyone else. 

Her vision blurs and she becomes vaguely aware of the fact she’s slumping forwards, but she doesn’t fall. In spite of all she’s done, someone is still there to catch her. Someone is still there to guide her back until she’s propped against the wall.

If she were to open her eyes, she’s sure she’d be met with concern. With pity and worry.

Or, perhaps, she’ll open them to see her father knelt down in front of her. She dreamt that, once. Dreamt that the last two decades were all a coma-dream and that she went from one nightmare to another, but it wasn’t real. She still doesn’t know how to feel about that.

The voices blear together, drowned out by the harsh sound of blood pumping in her ears and a distant ringing that goes straight through her. She grasps at one of the hands on her, clutching at it like a lifeline. Another hand combs through her hair in a soothing pattern. She focuses on it. Uses it to correct her breathing as it slows in its hitching and the exhaustion sets in.

Her head lolls to the side, dropping onto the shoulder of whoever is next to her. Too tired to stop herself. Too tired to reject the comfort she basks in. It’s been so long. Too long.

“We’ve got you. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”   

[aut-with-tism]

claire dearing in jurassic world (2015): production versus final product

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what headcanons do you have for autistic claire

okay BUCKLE IN anon. we’ve got ground to cover

as if jw era she’s at least vaguely aware that she is what one might call… Different (euphemism for neurodivergent). BUT she is also immensely in denial and views it as a nuclear bomb that could be dropped on her career at any time. she’s extremely defensive about being perceived/labeled as autistic thus dedicates 80% of her social energy to masking (she is lowkey bad at it)

because of her fear of being “outted”, so much of her stimming is suppressed. she actively tries not to tap her fingers or wring her hands together. but again, she’s kind of bad at it so as soon as she stops focusing on keeping herself Still, she’s back at it.

post-jw is when she really starts to accept it. she's got nothing left to lose and everything's gone to hell anyways. it's a hard habit to break and it takes a few years but by dominion she's basically completely abandoned masking. she is living her best autism life

I’m only partially joking when I say her hyperfixation is Her Job. it’s slightly more nuanced in that she actively seeks out jobs that feed into whatever she’s fixated on. being a manager would totally appeal to her bc it’s like playing irl sims where she gets to control everything so jw is like her personal zootycoon save. managing jw is, in a very legitimate way, her Special Interest. just like how saving dinosaurs became her Big Fixation and the dpg is just an extension of that. I don’t particularly see her having a fixation that doesn’t result in A Job. if she got fixated on flowers then she’d end up owning a botanical garden etc etc

she eats like a college student who doesn’t know how to use a stove. absolutely demolishes a bowl of instant noodles or oatmeal. if she’s feeling adventurous she will add 1/4th of the ramen seasoning. but she’s Very picky and going out to eat with her is a nightmare <33

her micromanaging personality is Absolutely rooted in autism. she hates change. she LOVES when she knows what to expect. making a date itinerary is just generally how she approaches any unknown.

and in that same vein, she likes numbers cause they're so defined. people are weird and confusing but guest satisfaction numbers are real and solid

this is more niche but karen did not realize gray was autistic for ages because she was like "no he's very normal. my sister is just like him". she realized they were Both autistic at the same time and had her Oh That Explains A Lot Actually moment.

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claire dearing + stims in jurassic world (2015)

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They don’t do anything for her birthday, when it comes around. It’s just another day of the year. Just like the year before and just like the year before that. Or any of the years before, for that matter. Instead, she spends the day at the office.

It’s become routine, now - to be there from sunrise until late at night. Only going home when the words start to swim on her laptop in front of her or the paperwork she’s making her way through no longer makes any sense.

How she gets home in one piece, she’s not sure.

Except she hopes she doesn’t. Slipping into habits of past; walking alone in the dark, driving home when she can barely keep her eyes open. Whatever it takes.

(It’s still not enough.)

They don’t do anything from her birthday, when it comes around, and by the time she returns to her apartment and puts her phone on charge beside her bed, there’s only thirteen minutes left of the dreaded day. Yet, no acknowledgement of it. No missed call off Karen, mo message from the boys. Not even mention of it from Zia.

Nothing.

Perhaps it’s only fair, she thinks, for all the birthdays of theirs she’s missed or forgotten about. For all she’s done, and all she hasn’t.

Still, she finds herself staring at the blank screen and counting down the minutes that remain.

She sees the end of one day and the start of another - both equally meaningless - and yet, she continues to wait a bit longer. Just in case. In case she had no signal, or had yet to connect to the Wi-Fi. In case she’d actually mixed up her days and gotten herself all worked up over nothing. She has, after all, reverted to bad habits.

Still, nothing.

They don’t do anything for her birthday, when it comes around, and it shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. Eyes burning. All too familiar ache in her chest as she curls up into herself.

She wills herself not to cry. Wills herself to stop. To cease. But the loneliness has long seeped into tired, weary bones. She curls in tighter. Smaller. A pitiful attempt to hold herself.

A singular tear rolls down her face. She makes no effort to swipe it away, undeserving of such comfort.

That night, she doesn’t fall asleep; just sort of lays there for hours, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Not quite in crisis. More…numb. Worn. Ruined, perhaps. (The story of her life.)

Morning comes, eventually. She finds herself going through the motions of it all, again. At the office by dawn. Not leaving until she’s practically asleep at her desk. As expected. What she doesn’t expect, however, is to find Zia waiting for her in the parking lot, arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the hood of her car.

There’s a look on her face akin to anger. Or concern. 

She doesn’t know which is worse.

She debates turning around; stumbling up the stairs and slouching over her desk until tomorrow, or waiting for Zia to give up and go home - whichever comes first. Her plan doesn’t last long, though. Zia spots her before she can do anything and she comes to realise neither were actually options, in the first place.

“Hey, you,” She tries, cringing at the way her voice squeaks, “What are you still doing here?”

“Funny. I was gonna ask you the exact same thing.”

Her flinch is small, but doesn’t go unnoticed. Zia softens, slightly, arms dropping to her sides, instead. It doesn’t make her feel any better.

They stand in silence for what feels like minutes, staring each other down, waiting for the other to give in. She caves first. “I fell asleep.”

They both know it’s a lie. Her last memory of undisturbed sleep is in Zia’s bed - limbs tangled together, away from prying eyes - over a month ago, now. Not even a week later, she threw that all away. She’s avoided her since, and even just admitting that sends the shame rushing back, crawling thickly up her throat.

Zia falters in response, blinking in disbelief. Hurt, almost. All because of her. Her.

More silence.

“At least let me drive you back home. You’re in no state to get behind the wheel,” Zia offers, eventually. Too kindly for her liking. A hand reaches out for her car keys and she hands them over reluctantly, slumping in the passenger seat as they pull out of the lot, “You know, whenever you’re ready to talk to me…as a friend or…I’ll be waiting. I know none of this is easy, but that doesn’t mean you have to make it harder for yourself. I want to be there for you, Claire.”

She remains silent, turning to her side to stare out the window. Blinking back the tears that prick her eyes, pushing down the gnawing guilt.

It’s not that simple, that straightforward. If it was…well, she wouldn’t be here.

March turns to April, turns to May, to June. Nearly two and a half years have passed, and yet, the only thing that’s changed is the length of her hair. Most days, it feels as though she never left the island. And every day, it feels as though she never should’ve left the island.

The day the committee gathers to decide the government’s involvement with Isla Nublar, she contemplates all that’s changed and that which hasn’t. Her whole life is still the park, in a way - but rather than running it as she used to, she finds herself running from it. Haunted by the narrative she wrote for herself.

(It’s almost poetic how she built herself from nothing and destroyed herself the same way, too. A self-fulfilling prophecy.)

The story ends the same. It always does. The dinosaurs all die, be it another dinosaur that kills them or a re-active volcano, she knows the end. Knows it’s all her fault. Knows no one cares.

They never did.

The weight is left to fall on her shoulders, once more; crushing her. She feels her hope deplete her body with a single, strangled breath, leaving her empty. She’s tired. So tired.

Muting the news, she finds herself catching Zia’s eyes. Even now, there’s a foreign fondness in them that she doesn’t know what to make of. She forces that thought aside, though, knowing the room’s attention is on her and her reaction.

She’s reminded of that day…after the Indominus escaped. The tension, the anticipation.

A morbid part of her knew, even then, that there was no happy ending to that story. That what followed was inevitable.

Whatever happens now is inevitable, too.

Death is a part of life and life finds a way. Maybe Malcolm wasn’t entirely wrong when he said that.

They’re going to die. They’re all going to die.

(Teeth, blood, screams.)

Her phone rings from across the room - a welcome distraction. She excuses herself and sighs with relief as murmurs rise and volume grows in response. Hand burning, the weight of her phone likens the flare. Lungs failing, legs aching. It’s not a T-Rex behind her, anymore, but a team of people who’ve gone above and beyond the past year or so.

Maybe it wasn’t enough for the government and maybe it’s not enough to save the dinosaurs, but it was more than she ever could’ve asked for, and certainly more than she deserved.

The T-Rex needed a little help to save them on the island, just like they need something more to save them, now. But maybe more has changed than she initially thought. Maybe there is hope; redemption.

That’s how it feels, standing in front of Benjamin Lockwood the next day. Like a second chance. A do over. An opportunity to finally do the right thing, even if people can’t comprehend such.

People, including Owen.

Eli sends her to fetch him. She leaves, instead, knowing he’ll follow.

She sits across from him at the bar and tells him he can’t run from everything. Yet, it’s all she’s ever done. Run. Run from her responsibility, her family; from those who love her and those she can’t love in return. Run from her guilt and all that plagues her.

She’s a hypocrite who leaves him with a reminder of the flight and an untouched bottle of beer. But he could never understand.

He never did and he never will. She knows that, knows the part they’ve played - the responsibility they feel - is vastly different. But he’s a better man than he thinks he is and even if he can’t understand, he’ll still be there. If not for her, then for Blue.

(Because he, too, is a pack animal at heart. He’s yet to admit it out loud, but him being on the plane speaks for itself.)

The whole flight, she’s on edge. Stuck across from Zia and next to Owen, watching them share stories about their time in service and their personal experience with animals. They’re more alike than she first thought, and she finds that strange. Unnerving.

She distracts herself from the discomfort by staring out of the window, instead. Wringing her wrists and pretending her growing anxiety is solely trauma related. If she pretends hard enough, it is. She sees a pteranodon circling the valley and her shudder is involuntary. Mr Masrani, the helicopter crashing into the aviary…teeth, blood, screams.

And Zara. Zara.

Both Owen and Zia reach for her at the same time - a hand on her knee, another on her shoulder. She’s quick to shrug them off and close her eyes. It doesn’t help.

She thinks of Twinings in her cabinet, or tucked away in a drawer under her desk. Her ever-growing bookshelf and cherry flavoured lip balm. Coconut and camomile. Dark curls. Darker death.

The island gave her everything, and took it away just as easily. It isn’t fair.

Her head spins and the walls start to close in on themselves, leaving her reeling. Panic attack impending. She’s never been more grateful for a plane landing in her life, stumbling over herself to get to the door the moment she can.

Humid air never felt so good. Curls stick to the back of her neck, damp with sweat resultant of both the heat and her discomfort. She grimaces at the thought, remembering part of the reason she kept her so short way back when.

She glances around the area to ground herself, noting more staff than she can count. Hammond clearly wasn’t the only one with the mantra of ‘spare no expense’.

They’re ushered into vehicles and driven through the park. She’s vaguely aware of Zia and Franklin talking about…something, she’s not too sure. Too fixated on the ruin they drive through, the destruction that’s left behind.

She did this. Her.

The vehicles pull to a stop on Main Street, right in the middle of the carnage. The ground shakes, footsteps echoing in the near distance, and she’s taken back to the parking garage at the old park. That momentary relief before the ceiling collapsed down onto them.

But this isn’t that. The Indominus-Rex is dead and it’s over. It’s over.

Zia scrambles out of the car and she notices what the other woman must’ve spotted, quick to follow her. She watches Zia stare at the brachiosaur with an awe she only ever saw directed at herself, and she can’t help but put her arms around her, basking in the moment.

“Look at that. Never thought I’d see one in real life. She’s beautiful.” Zia breathes. She finds herself smiling fondly, understanding just how monumental this is for her. How significant.

This, this is why they did it. The look on Zia’s face. The wonder in her eyes. 

She was nineteen when she saw her first dinosaur, herself. It felt like a miracle - and it truly was, in its own right - one that she didn’t believe at first. But it was real. They are real and they’re going to stay that way.     

They stay like that for a moment, in a world of their own. She continues to watch Zia and wonders if this is how the other woman felt when she looked at her; this warmth in her chest, this intensity.

How could something so foreign feel so familiar, so right?

“Can we…?” Franklin interrupts, making them all turn to him. He points awkwardly to the truck, shuffling back bit by bit until they all move to go back to their seats, the booming of the volcano serving as a reminder of their time constraint.

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im a woman of the people

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claire dearing in funko fusion (2024)

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"claire dearing is NOT nonbinary" explain this then

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Zia Rodriguez is the first official member of the DPG.

She’s young. Passionate. The enquiry email she receives shows as much, with an equally impressive résumé attached. She’s quick to email back, arranging to meet in person and further discuss details.

She walks away from that meeting feeling the most hope she’s felt in a year.

Zia reminds her of Zara, in a way; eager to do what she can to help whilst all too aware of limitations preventing such. Impressionable, not malleable.

(Weeks later, when they’re blindly stumbling through her apartment, she’ll be reminded of Zara, again. Breathless kisses and burning shame. If she whimpers the wrong name as she comes apart, clawing at the sheets, Zia doesn’t correct her. She never does.)

But then there’s the lingering touches - a hand on her thigh, in her hair. There's watching her when she thinks she’s not looking, followed by shameless grins when she’s caught in the act. Or cocky retorts to make her smile. Catching her eyes to be met with caring concern. Silent questions and unspoken answers.

Those remind her of Owen.

It’s just her and Zia, the first couple months. Which probably should disappoint her, but doesn’t.

(Not when she wakes to a head between her thighs and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Not when low hums of praise and tentative but precise fingers help chase the nightmares away.)

Those first few months are theirs and theirs alone.

It works out best, that way. By the time her inbox slowly fills up with interest, everything’s in its right place. Their following soon grows, as does their team.

It doesn’t surprise her when the vast majority happen to be past employees and interns at Jurassic World, but it still feels like a punch to the gut. It sends her reeling; doubled over, eyes burning.

They lost their jobs - and those who didn’t lost their lives - all because of her. Her. And yet, they still want to help.

They’re better people than she’ll ever be. But she can try.

She is trying.

Come summer’s end, their website is up and running and they have steady followings across multiple social media accounts. She finds herself obsessing over numbers and statistics once more, escaping through work. But by no means is it the park. There’s no control room - no control. No ‘Miss Dearing’ or ‘Ma’am’. Just Claire. Claire and her team.

It’s beautiful.

She and Zia have built this beautiful thing together from nothing and she couldn’t be more proud. And yet, she has the sudden urge to flee. To run and watch from the sidelines in fear she’ll ruin it.

Maybe she will. After all, that’s what she does best, is it not? Maybe it’s some twisted tale of misfortune. Her warped destiny.

She explains such, one night. All these worries and insecurities that plague her. How she was born damned and has spent every day of her pathetic life sealing that fate. And all she can do is watch. Observe.

It gave her life meaning, once. Looking down from above and watching everyone go about their lives as though they were something - someone - in the world.

But she knows better, now. Knows better than to believe she could belong.

Somewhere between passing the bottle of Jack Daniel’s between them and her (drunkenly - it wouldn’t have happened, otherwise) pouring her heart out, Zia leans in to kiss her. Slowly. Carefully.

Lovingly.

And then it’s not just the whiskey burning a trail up from her stomach to her chest.

Then the fullness within is resultant of more than alcohol and Chinese takeout, alone.

She just told Zia she doesn’t belong. But, right now, it feels as though maybe, just maybe, she could. And that scares her. Terrifies her, even.

It’s all too new. Too sudden. Unexpected and unexplainable; strange.

The word ‘love’ comes to mind once more and she thinks about Zia, about Owen, about Zara. The look in their eyes, all too familiar and yet oh so foreign. She wants it. God, she wants it so badly but she can’t.

She’s quick to scramble up off the couch, tripping over herself until she’s hunched over the toilet bowl. Heaving up dinner and spitting out the shame burning her skin.

This is wrong. It’s unnatural.

Her father made sure she knew that when she was twelve and he caught her kissing the pastor’s niece behind the shed at church camp. How he hit her to the ground and didn’t stop until she thought she thought she’d end up six feet under it. How he refused to look her in the eyes until she was ‘fixed’ weeks later.

(She was damned in more ways than one, when it happened. When the same thing that seemingly fixed her in his eyes left her broken in hers.)

A sob escapes her lips. She lets it.

Eventually, cool fingers brush through damp curls, lifting them up off her neck and out of her face. Someone hushes her until sobs turn to whimpers turn to shallow breaths. Gentle reassurances whispered in her ear, gentler hands rubbing circles on her back. A comfort undeserved.

Her first coherent thought is Owen. But it’s not him. It’s not Owen and it’s not Zara and she knows she’s screwed. Knows it’s too late. She’s too far gone to be saved.

So, she leaves.

It’s become a routine of its own, in a way; love them and leave them.

(Leaving’s the easy part.)

Some things never change. Or, rather, she never changes - she doesn’t think she knows how to.

But she always comes crawling back. Too scared of change, of being alone, of having nothing in this world and no place in it, either. It’s inadvertently selfish of her, but she has bigger sins.

Zia doesn’t - wouldn’t - understand. She can’t. Not when she promises she’s fine not being loved by her if it means she’ll love herself, but Zia doesn’t get that she doesn’t know how to do either.

All she knows is she’s tired and she doesn’t want to be alone anymore. She doesn’t have to be.

So long as she gets better. So long as she can do better and be better.

It’s an unspoken ultimatum she gave herself the night she tore apart her living room in the midst of a breakdown. The night Zia had to pick the lock to her apartment because she’d called her to say sorry and ended up saying goodbye. The night she drank until she stopped recognising herself and saw her dad, instead.

She stops drinking that night.

Her first fumbling step in the right direction. It shouldn’t feel like an achievement and it doesn’t, not really, but she can’t help the way she feels it bubble up inside when Zia says how proud she is.

She shows it, too. Pushing her back onto the bed with a tender force that makes her head spin. Leaving her melting under every touch and with every kiss.

For something so wrong, it couldn’t feel more right.

She packs in smoking as well, eventually. Six weeks away from the second anniversary; two weeks after Zach’s eighteenth birthday.

Karen had made a comment about how much better she looked, before asking if she and Owen were back together. As if the man’s absence wasn’t answer enough. All she could do was shake her head in response. It felt like a trap. Be shamed for her joy, or be shamed for her seeming lack thereof. Whichever’s worse, she supposes.

It didn’t mean anything, but it stuck with her. Like all minor things in her life, building up until they became something more in her mind that she just couldn’t let go.

It stuck with her when she went back home.

It stuck with her when she’d look in the mirror and notice the lessened bags under her eyes and the roundness returning to her face once more.

It stuck with her when she did all she could to avoid Zia without making it obvious that’s what she was doing.

Which wasn’t fair - god, she knows how wrong it was - but it seemed less wrong to throw herself fully into her work when reports of volcanic activity from Mount Sibo hit the news.

For the first time in nearly two years, dinosaurs stopped being monsters and went back to animals, instead.

There’s fundraising events. Peaceful protests. Social media tags. The DPG blows up to the point it’s no longer suitable to continue working from home, anymore. So, she uses her severance pay to rent an office space in the city.

Let something good come out of the bad, Zia reminds her. But for something good, there’s more bad. It never seems to end.

(And it reminds her of the park, now. Sweet-talking potential investors and sponsors. Long days, longer nights. Always busy but never quite enough to shut her brain off.

By the February time, she feels like she’s back where she started.

For every step forwards, there’s three steps back.

One step back is to Jurassic World. One step back to control room Claire. One step back to the pitiful child that nobody can save. Born damned; damned to die that way, too.

One night she leaves work and finds herself at a dive bar downtown. Shot of tequila sat in front of her, head in her hands - she must look pathetic. Dry drowning her sorrows in a vain attempt to hold back the memories of teeth, blood, screams that have crept up on her, again. She thinks she’s hallucinating when she sees Owen. But the look on his face when he sits down beside her is something she can’t make up. It must mirror her own.

“You finally found a diet that allows tequila?”

She slides the shot glass across to him, watching as he throws it back and shudders at the taste. He faces her with a curiosity she can’t comprehend, tilting his head like one of his raptors.

“What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

And so, they do. He takes her hand and leads her through the crowd until they’re outside. Even then, he doesn’t let go.

How they got to his van, she doesn’t remember. All she can recall is pushing him up against the door and kissing him until her lungs burned and her chest ached. Whimpering into his mouth as he pulled her impossibly closer. Crying out his name and clawing at his back.

He falls asleep with his arms wrapped tight around her and she tries not to cry as the shame of it all hits her.

She’s gone from leading on one person to sleeping with another and it’s not fair on either person. They’ve given her their all and this is how she returns the favour? By cheating them both?

Trembling hands peel away Owen’s arms and search for her clothes in the dark. A routine she’s done before.

She doesn’t cry until she’s outside and the weight of her guilt crushes her.

She doesn’t stop crying until she falls asleep in her car.

When she wakes up cold and aching, it feels like a righteous punishment. The least she deserves after it all. Phone dead, head pounding, she drives to the office and refuses to acknowledge anyone all day. Just…stays at her desk until everyone’s gone home for the night. Well, almost everyone.

“What happened?” Zia asks, sitting on top of her desk. She flinches. It’s not accusatory, just too much kindness for her to handle. Too much concern. “Claire?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Claire, talk to me.”

Still, nothing.

It takes too long for Zia to sigh and leave. It takes even longer for her to whisper an apology as she watches her walk away. Not that it matters; it could never be enough. She could never be enough.

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