Title: Until Her
Author: AbayJ
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea.
Rating: T to M (For language.)
Genre: Angst/Drama
Fandom: Grey's
Ship: Cristina/Owen
Song: Song to listen too while you're reading, It's Over -- Jesse McCartney.
Summery: He didn't believe in love, until her.
Warning: No beta, all mistakes my own.
Author's Note: Okay, this is the companion piece to Until Him. And as most sequels are, I don't think this quite lived up to the first one. Probably because since this was inspired by true life events just twisted to fit a Grey's setting, I'm not sure how HE feels. So this is how I would think Owen would feel. Enjoy.
Until Her
The bottles were lined up, just like toy soldiers. Each one empty like after a day of long hard battles. Though their battles were with a glass, glass after glass. He, winced as a flash of sun came through the window, had had managed to sleep an hour tonight, that was progress. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this awful, well besides the few nights that had past, but in an overall sense.
His gaze strayed to the phone. Fool. He was a fucking fool. Did he really expect her to call? Beg for his forgiveness? Grovel at his feet? Crisitina Yang didn't beg or grovel. Smile, wear her hair up just the way he liked, moan when he kissed that spot at the nape of her neck, and wrap her arms tight around him as he fell apart. Begging or groveling though, wasn't something she did.
He wiped at his eyes. He had never felt like this, and the damned thing was that it was her fault, he shouldn't feel like hell, but he did. She had made him fall in love...bewitched him with each kiss, each almost touch, each smile, and each whisper of forever. Of forty years. This is why Owen Hunt didn't do love, at least not until her.
Wincing once again as another potent streak of sun hit his face, he rolled over and up. Staggering to his feet. He needed coffee. He needed to sober up. His rounds started in less then an hour. He'd pass anything serious along to residents and their interns. He'd advise. He was in no way sober enough to work on anything. Advising would even be a challenge.
Damn woman, damn lies, and damn love. How could she go back out on their promise to be upfront with each other. No matter if it dealt with baggage that each of them was caring, they would deal with it together. Then she had told him what she had done, how she had nearly destroyed peoples lives. She had lied to him about since they met, and then, then she told him. Just like they agreed to do, be honest with each other. He winced, this time, though, not from the sun. Was he blowing this out of proportion, had he ended it to quickly? He shook his head. Owen Hunt didn't second guess himself or do love, at least not until her.
He took a few steps from couch, his hands going to this head. The scotch he had drunk somehow made it to his head, formed into a ball, and was now bouncing from side to side. He needed coffee.
He reached the small kitchenette that was in his small apartment, hitting the button on the coffee pot. glad his cleaning lady had the kindness to always have the coffee pot ready to go when she left each day. He looked back towards the cheap coffee table, he wasn't big on decorating, this wasn't his home after all, he didn't have home. He should really get rid of the toy soldiers aka scotch bottles that lined the cheap piece of wood from side to side. Mrs. Jenkins would worry as she cleaned if she saw them.
Stumbling his way to the table, he nearly tripped over a pillow. It was green. Silky, with dark stripes. Cristina. It was Cristina. He looked down at it, scowling, he should have kicked it. Instead, he sat back down on the couch, picking up the throw pillow. It was part of her fight to make his place more comfortable. Like a home she had said. He didn't have a home though. He, Owen Hunt, didn't have a home, didn't second guess, and didn't do love, until her.
He threw the pillow across the room. Standing up, glad the boucning ball in his head had stopped moving. That was something at least. Staggering back to the coffee pot, he poured a cup, and threw it down. He was being stupid. He had ended this, she had asked him not too, he had still walked out. He shouldn't feel guilty, shouldn't expecting a call, and shouldn't be wanting a call. He was though. His eyes strayed to the phone again, expecting it to ring. He, Owen Hut didn't expect things, didn't have a home, didn't second guess, and he didn't love, until her.
"Fuck." He mumbled and staggered off to the bedroom. Leaving his half empty cup of strong black coffee on the counter and the scotch bottles on the coffee table, forgotten. His head filling with thoughts, thoughts that were better left closed off. He felt himself start to shake, a panic attack getting ready to settle into his bones. With shaking hands, he started to strip off his clothes. Shower, water...he needed to focus. Not settle into the panic.
Getting his boxers shoved down, he stumbled to the small bathroom, reached for the faucet, and turned on the water. The sting of the hot rain, he hadn't looked as he turned the water on, just feeling it as he stepped in. Pounding his firm back, leaning forward, bracing his hands on the wall in front of his head forehead and feeling a shaking breath being retch from his lungs.
"How could you lie? Why did you lie?" He saw her eyes tear up, had force himself to stay strong. If it had been anyone else causing the tears, he would have ripped him apart. But it was him, he was the one making her cry. "All I asked was for honesty...did you think I would leave because of your mistakes?" She had thought that, hadn't trusted him enough to love her, to give her those forty years no matter what. That was what stung, she hadn't trusted him.
"You are leaving me because of my mistakes." He had tightened his fist around his bag and scrub cap. He didn't want to leave, he wanted to give her another chance. Pride though, pride had made him look at her with cold disdain he hadn't felt. "No, I'm leaving because of the lies." Then it had been over, he had walked out. Believing he had been in the right. This was her fault. She deserved this.
He had never taken 15 longer steps from her doorway to his car. It had been like a death march, each step killing both him and her. Taking another little piece of soul. Though, he, Owen Hunt hadn't had a soul, didn't expect things, didn't have a home, didn't second guess, and he didn't love, until her.
He hated the woman and yet loved her at the same time. Wanted to strangle her and yet kiss her. Wanted to hurt her and yet take the hurt away. Contradictions. Contradictions had always been Cristina Yang. Tough and cold and yet, held him while his world fell apart as Beth walked back into his life. Fiery and yet calmed him with a glance. Owen Hunt didn't like contradictions, hadn't had a soul, didn't expect things, didn't have a home, didn't second guess, and he didn't love, until her.
Lifting his head back up, he grabbed the soap, making quick work of the rest of his shower. He needed to get to the hospital, to stop focusing all the woman who had made everything all right once again. Made things easier.
Turning off the water with a shaky breath, he stepped out of the shower. Grabbing a towel. Looking at the mirror, he picked up his razor. She liked the scruff. She liked to feel the roughness of his cheek as he kissed her special places, made her moan for him.
He started to swipe the razor down his cheek. She wasn't coming back and pride wouldn't let him go back. It was over. He felt a sting and then a trickle. He looked at his hands, steady hands that never betrayed his emotions. He had complete control. But he had last control, and he never knew if he could get it back. Leaning forward, he let his eyes follow the trickle of blood down his cheek.
"Fuck." He mumbled again. Karma or irony, he didn't want to say. Because after all, Owen Hunt didn't loose control, didn't like contradictions, hadn't had a soul, didn't expect things, didn't have a home, didn't second guess, and he didn't love, until her. And she was gone now.