Montana, before the Isla Nublar incident.

“No, you’re not doing it right,” he says, reaching over your all too hesitant frame and grabbing the paintbrush just a little too roughly from your hand. “With an upwards motion. You see?” You stop checking your nimble fingertips for splinters when he repeats himself, and you nod in confirmation.

He sighs, then pushes his brawny and desert-worn body, all covered in dust and dirt and sand, up to perch on his knees. Looking down at you and you looking up at him, Dr. Grant turns his attention to the half-submerged fossil sprawled out before him. Not half bad for a rookie such as yourself, though he can’t say he ever doubted your capabilities.

“Maiasaura, good mother lizard. Hadrosaur, lived in the upper Cretaceous eighty to seventy million years ago,” he explains, though he’s sure you figured that out ages ago. If he weren’t here, you would have the whole dig wrapped around your finger (…or crippled under an iron fist). He turns to you and offers a half-hearted attempt at a smile, or perhaps one of complete effort. You’d never seen the guy smile… you weren’t entirely sure if he could at all.