Title: One Man Down

Author: Rachel2008

Disclaimers: They aren't mine, no copyright infringement is intended, blah blah blah.

Spoilers: None, really. I just crossed over into the dark side.

Summary: What happens in Baghdad has an impact on Seattle.

Rating: T .

Feedback: Like it, don't like it, just let me know. Also, if there's something wrong (medical, militar stuff), tell me and I will fix that. I hate being unrealistic.

Archive: No.

Special thanks: Mercury Gray was again a very generous beta-reader and an excellent teacher. She's also a great writer, so go read her stories. Ohcyfan gave me great encouragement. Go read her stories, too.

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Baghdad.

Time had a different pace in Iraq. Sometimes days would go excruciatingly slow, long hours of bright scorching sun, unbearable heat, with temperatures going as high as 120 degrees in July and August. Dust, loads of dry dust that came with the sharqi, the southern and southeasterly wind, and the shamal, from north and northwest. The sandstorms were dangerous and caused hazardous flying conditions, but were still fascinating, nature in its wild and violent element. Then winter would come and make nights very cold and also very lonely, running in the high 60's and low 40's in Baghdad. Owen Hunt couldn't decide if he would chose the suffocating weather over the freezing winter and that awful brown ice, but he was sure he hated the sand with every fiber of his being, almost as much as he loved the Middle East sky and its fabulous sunsets.

Every day, every single day, there were lots of injured, both coalition troops and Iraq civilians and militia, and they had never reached the 24 hours clean mark. They had been pretty close a couple of times, but at the last minute someone would come in or they would go over the field. At the end of the day they were forced to remember in the most painfully way that 20 hours without a single new patient was a noteworthy fact in this war. The Iraq War. Five years, but who was counting?

Being in a war zone meant that your life was on the line every single second. One was never safe, not even in one's bunker. He had been lucky. A dislocated shoulder from a football game with some asshole Marines, a few stitches from a clumsy jump from a Humvee. He had been very lucky.

Until now.

They had just finished treating the wounded, a guy who would barely make it to the base, a boy who couldn't be over than nineteen and would lose his arm and four or five others who were in a bad shape, but would survive. They were packing quickly, standard procedure, but the truth? He never saw the second ambush coming. A second attack was always a possibility, but they had been fewer…

It took a couple of seconds until he realized he had been hit. One of those improvised explosive devices, the dreadful IEDs that would always, always find their way into a man's body. It always amazed him that they were able to pack such a destructive group of little devices into such a small, succinct acronym. It seemed to him like the title needed to be longer to get the full effect of how damn disruptive these things were. He felt the burn on his side, right on his waist, down up, a second before his chest exploded in pain and his right leg failed him, an agonizing slit sensation on his thigh. He lost his balance, fell back, hitting a vehicle and then sliding onto the ground, blood beginning to pool and soak his ballistic vest. The pain was unbearable. Stupid ballistic vest, stupid ballistic…

"Major! Major Hunt! Sir, we're going to help you, sir! Help! I need help over here! Help!"

What was that boy's name? Corporal Adams? Madison? Monroe? He knew it was one of the first Presidents.

His armor body was being untied, a pair of hands was pressing hard against his chest and he tried to look up, a familiar worried face watching him intensely, short blond hair spilling from under her combat helm.

Jensen. No nonsense, no bullshit, Captain Marg Jensen, always smiling, greenest eyes he had ever seen and one of the most talented surgeons in the Army. He wanted to talk to her, to help her help him, but he was gritting his teeth, his jaw clenched. He was not in a place to be helping anyone but himself right now. He felt someone slipping next to his other side bluntly, new hands grabbing his body and laying him down, a rush of morphine spreading through his body.

"Fuck, Owen!! Hang on, buddy, hang on! Get out of my way, Monroe! Damn it, Marg, there's shrapnel all over his leg, you need to stop the bleeding on his chest!"

Lt. Colonel Brad "Buck" Davies, his best friend, his soul brother, the guy who made sure they all remained alive while they were on their knees treating the injured. The medical team always gave their backs to the enemy, but Buck was the guy facing them.

"Jesus, Buck, shut it, I'm not blind and I'm the doctor, let me do my work! Snoopy! Come here, I need you!"

"Marg, we have to get out fast, it's not over! Morales, get a fucking chopper down here now!!"

Would these two ever get a room? They should. He was pretty sure they wouldn't. Morons.

He felt himself being moved, his injured lung side down so he could still breathe. He could have passed out from the pain alone, he had never hurt this much in his life. His chest felt like it was being ripped apart from the inside and every bit of air he sucked in and out just increased his suffering in warp speed. Any other day he would be cursing the pain in his leg, but that? That was nothing comparing to what that IED had done to his upper body. The coppery smell of his own blood filled his nose, making him sick to his stomach and he barely had time to turn his face before he emptied his lunch on someone's feet.

The sun was so bright it made his head ache. He suddenly had a flash, a memory from when he was eight, a few hours before having elective surgery for tonsillitis, her face very serious. "If you see a light, Owen, run, run from the light." Ah, little sis, there's no light. And I'm so sorry you will get that visit. I know I promised you...

A new rush of morphine. Marg tried to smile, her uniform covered in blood. His blood.

"It's going to be okay, Owen, it's going to be okay."

Oh, Marg, it's not going to be okay. We both know a fatal wound when we see one. You know it too, Buck.

"Hey, hey, Owen, open your eyes, look at me, buddy, don't die on me, hang on there, man. Fuck, fuck, fuck, where's that fucking helicopter?"

Had it been like that, when he had told countless men to not give up, to keep their eyes open when he knew they wouldn't?

Shit. Dying was such a cliché, wasn't it?

"Sir, chopper ETA 1 minute!"

"Help's coming, stay awake, come on, Owen, stay awake, you have only another couple of months then you can go home and get to know your pretty little Cristine."

Ah! Cristina - AH! Why was it so hard for him to get it straight? He did it on purpose, didn't he?

Cristina Yang. A petite dark-haired doctor he had kissed impulsively in his last leave, after finding himself in a car accident, performing a trach with a pen ("Showing off much?" Marg had taunted him) and pulling out an icicle from the fiery resident. Fading away on the hot Iraqi ground, the irony wasn't lost on him. He wished he had asked her out. That he had gotten to know her. In the intellectual sense. In the Biblical sense. That he had heard her laughing because he was sure she had the most beautiful laugh. How could she not, with that smile? She had a beautiful smile. She could barely restraint her glee while stapling his leg without anesthesia and that had amused him to no end, making a great memory for those days in the sandpit when he could afford to think about something else than work.

They had shared a moment, and right there he had realized he wanted to come back for her. Seattle was home. He would never work at Seattle Grace, but he had a great offer from Mercy; why not? Why shouldn't he? Life was too short. He witnessed that daily. He had been attracted to her the moment he had noticed her, those gorgeous black locks and soft lips. She had made him long for the after.

The kiss had been a promise, to her and to him, one he would never be able to fulfill and that - the certainty that he was never going to see his family or her again - increased his distress greatly. Nobody was ready for that kind of awareness.

His suffering reached new lengths, both physically and emotionally, but he didn't want it to be over. He craved to live his life fully, until the final moment, until he could. He made a tremendous effort to open his eyes and silently say a last goodbye to his friends… Buck (take care of them), Marg (don't cry, baby) Morales, Lombardo, Henderson, Keisha-San, Skip, Ayala, Warner, Hicks, Snoopy… He already missed them all.

His sister was waving at him, her red hair flying freely in the wind. I love you, brat, I love you so much.

Cristina Yang was smiling at him. You gave me a high and I wish I had time.

And her face was the last image of his life.

Seattle.

Cristina Yang yawned and slowly dragged herself across the living room towards the kitchen. She had worked non-stop for 16 hours, 8 of them on her feet assisting on a very complicated surgery that had been truly fascinating, but had also drained all her forces. She had had a dreamless night and was thankful she had the day off, because she fully intended to grab something to eat and go back to her bed.

She appreciated the fact that she didn't have to worry about food. Callie Torres, her neatly organized roommate, would always make coffee in the mornings and there would always be enough in the fridge to make a sandwich. Absently Cristina put some cheese and ketchup between two slices of whole bread, sitting on a stool next to the counter. The culinary improbability of cheese and ketchup even tasting remotely edible had not occurred to her. Her mind was elsewhere.

She opened the newspaper Callie had left for her and lazily went through the pages, not really paying attention to the headlines. However, she felt her stomach knot the moment the saw a small picture of a smiling guy in an Army dress uniform. Eve though it was a black and white photo she remembered those bright blue eyes and copper hair, the freckles and the tanned skin one got after being so long over there.

Major Owen Patrick Hunt, 36, of Seattle, died on Sunday, 20, in Iraq. A surgeon with the …

A gut wrenching feeling took over, and if she hadn't been already sat, she knew her legs would have failed her. Her shaking hands clutched the paper, her eyes reading the lines furiously, looking for a sign that it was all a mistake, a bad joke.

… after receiving a B.A. from the University of California, Berkeley, and a M.D. from the Irvine School of Medicine…

He went to Berkley too?

... the ambush outside Baghdad…

She felt ashamed. War was out of her realm, something happening in a distant land, for stupid reasons – weren't the reasons always pointless? – involving people she didn't know or care about more than that quick CNN moment every night. Was she such a horrible person that the carnage of war only affected her if it was somewhat close to her? That it was unfair he had been the only one who died in that attack?

But he wasn't close to her. She didn't even know him. He was a stranger. Then why she felt the hole in her chest getting bigger and bigger?

… four tours in Iraq…

Four? Four tours? Oh, how could you have been so stupid? Why did you push your luck? Damn, you. She felt angry with him, she felt angry at herself and she couldn't comprehend why.

… survived by a sister…

You fucking idiot. Who's going to console your family? Who's going to tender those who were left behind?

She couldn't remember the last time she had prayed. Prayed like she had meant it. Did she still know the words?

Yitgaddal v'yitqaddash sh'meh rabba... (Exalted and sanctified is G-d's great name...).

One of her hands instinctively rested on her side, where he had carefully, slowly and perfectly stitched the cut from the icicle, while the other reached her face, rubbing her eyes furiously. She wouldn't cry.

… b'chayekhon uvyomekhon… (… in your lifetime and your days…)

The tears fell untamed, blurring her vision and staining the newspaper's pages, her throat tight. She squeezed her eyes, trying to focus on the small photo, trying to memorize every trace of his face, even though she hadn't forgot anything.

… l'ʻalam ulʻal'me ʻal'maya… (… forever and to all eternity…)

She remembered how he had her at the first "So?" and how kind he had been to her when she had told him about the mistake that had cost a man's life. He had offered her advice when nobody else would. She had learned a very important lesson, one that she had incorporated to her skills for life. She had never made a mistake twice again and she had become a better doctor. He had made her a better doctor.

… lʻella mikkol min kol birkhata… (… far beyond all the blessings…)

She remembered touching his skin to staple the gash on his leg, and the way he cupped her face when he kissed her. And what a kiss that had been. She hadn't told anyone, but had cherished that memory, locked it in a special place, for it belonged to her and only to her. When she felt unworthy or not special or not good enough or pretty enough, she reminded herself that a hot guy – and a good doctor, nonetheless - had looked at her earnestly and kissed her and touched her cheek and played with her hair like if she was the most beautiful woman on Earth.

…v'shirata tushb'chata v'nechemata… (…and hymns, praises and consolations…)

But most of all, she remembered how full of life he was. He was a tour de force, sexy energy vibrating around him, a magnetic field attracting everything to him, including her, without asking for permission. A part of her had never detached from him, but she had kept some of him with her, too. That portion of him she had seized was vivacious, joyful, über confident and cocky, careless and free, free as she had never been herself.

Titqabbal tz'lot'hon uvaʻut'hon… (Let them be accepted: the prayers and supplications…)

She was crying, her chest very tight and very heavy. She sensed that some portion of her grief was due to the shattering of that what could have been feeling, that faint dreamy hope one carries with oneself, a sweet moment that had warmed her heart at solitary nights. Just that, nothing more, nothing less, she wanted to convince herself. Just hope. But she had wondered, a couple of times, maybe more, if she was honest, she had wondered if he would have looked for her after the war, if he would have accepted the Chief's offer, if they would have gotten to know each other.

It hurt too much, and she knew that her loss – a loss of something she wasn't even aware she had - would impact the rest of her life. She was painfully conscious of *his* loss, of what he would miss, what he wouldn't have, and she could only pray that he was at peace.

… qodam avuhon di bishmayya, v'ʼimru amen. (… before their Father in Heaven; and say, Amen.)

Goodbye, Owen.