Title: Dearly Beloved

Rating: T

Summary: The Not Date. If it had been a real date, it was unlike any other Cristina had been on with a man. How novel!

Disclaimer: Still own nothing; Shonda and ABC don't play well with others, so sad.

A/N: So… This was waaaaay too long in coming, sorry, truly and deeply. Me and my creative process is- slow, and meticulous. I've had more than half of this written for weeks and am never quite happy with it. Couple that with a side story that's obsessing me, and you have forever between posts. Again, sorry! Thanks for all the great reviews, and insightful comments, they fill me with glee. I can only promise to try to get the next chapter out before the sun goes supernova on the solar system. I have some good ideas for it and motivation, so I'm hoping for a much quicker turn around time, life permitting.


It's only just a crush, it'll go away
It's just like all the others it'll go away
Or maybe this is danger and you just don't know
You pray it all away but it continues to grow

-She Wants Revenge

Watching the pavement fly by outside the car window was soothing. As was the silence in the car. She appreciated a man who could sit in silence without feeling the need to fill it with inane prattle, usually about them selves. On her one official date with Burke, it had been sheer torture sitting across the crystal and china set table, desperate for something, anything, to say to one another that didn't deal with surgeries or gossip about surgeries. Needless to say, when that man had collapsed it had saved the evening from total mortification and ruin. Owen was content to drive in silence, not even turning on the radio to fill it with annoying jangle.

Yes, Cristina appreciated a man who liked the quiet.

All too soon the lights from the city across the lake came into glaring view and they pulled off the freeway into another world. It reminded her of Beverly Hills, the downtown district, not the Rodeo Drive crap that all the tourists knew, with its ultra-modern high rises reaching for the sky. Not like Seattle with its pioneer roots. She really didn't know much about Washington State. Hell, she barely knew California, and she'd grown up there. Seattle was mostly a blur outside the ten or twelve city blocks comprising the hospital, her various apartments and Meredith's place. So finding herself someplace new, with a man like Owen, she was burning up with curiosity.

How did he know Washington? What had he been doing in Seattle in the first place? Why was he back now? The urge to ask questions made her resent the silence, but she'd be hanged before she was the one to break it. He was the one making her do this after all, if he wanted to talk, he'd have to be the one to start it. It was only fair after all. Realizing how contradictory her feelings were made her stifle a smile. Wouldn't do to encourage him.

They eventually pulled into a parking lot near the edge of the downtown area. The building set back from the street was a nondescript, two-story converted warehouse. The unassuming facade gave no hint as to its true purpose and the sign on the building was just some initials. BG&RA. Whatever. It had just better not be a bowling alley. Or a strip club. Either of those venues would warrant an immediate departure on her part. She'd hitch hike back if she couldn't find a cab.

Owen parked and hopped out of the car while she was still fumbling with the release on her seatbelt. When the door opened next to her she was a little surprised, even more so by his out held hand. Where had he learned all the chivalry crap? Okay, not crap, it was flattering even as it weirded her out. From any other guy she'd take it as an insult, that he didn't respect her strength and intelligence to open a door all by her lonesome. From Owen... she didn't mind as much. Though it was still kind of creepy.

Giving him another mocking smile and quirked eyebrow, she took his hand and let him help her from the car. He read her look perfectly and just shook his head, that smug little half smirk his only rebuttal even as he tucked her hand through his elbow and stroked the back softly. She could swear she felt the skin burning where he touched it, going straight to her head and fuzzing up her logic. The sensation seemed to fade somewhat as they entered the building and she became aware again of her surroundings.

There were gun posters on the walls, guns in display cases, bulletin boards announcing tournaments and gatherings. In big, bold letters on the wall above a reception window was inscribed 'Welcome to the Bellevue Gun and Riffle Association'. It wasn't a strip club, and it sure as hell wasn't anything she was prepared for or expecting. Her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline as she finished looking around, eyes stopping on Owen.

Blue eyes met brown and held her pinned for a few timeless seconds. He read the surprise on her face, searched hard for signs of freaking out, and, seeing none, he just shrugged laconically and grinned, letting her nerveless hand drop from his arm. As he went over to the reception window, talking quietly with the woman seated behind it, Cristina gathered her scattered wits and fiercely berated herself.

Stupid! What were you honestly expecting? Candlelight dinner and make-out music? Even though this is kind of serial killer-y, it's not the usual crap people do on first Not Dates. Or even real dates. But what the hell does it mean? Does he just, god forbid, want to be friends, hasn't even thought about that kiss? Was it nothing? Crap...

She almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand resting on the small of her back. This was so far out of her comfort zone right now, and she didn't really know what to do or how to react. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Come on, we have a gallery down on the far end. I'll meet you down there after picking up our equipment and shells." He led them through a door near the window and pointed her in the right direction before heading the opposite way to a caged off area where a few people stood. Several others were already standing in sectioned off boxes, but for the most part the place was empty. Being careful to stay on the safe side of the yellow line on the floor, she made her way down to the last gallery and leaned against the wall, fingers toying with the zipper of her hoodie.

Callie had not covered this in her little speech about appropriate Not Date attire. In theory, this was casual, so she should keep the jacket on, but it was almost too warm inside the building, and if she were going to shoot anything, or anyone, it was best to be unencumbered. Yeah, shooting Owen was rising on the list of possibilities for the evening, first for being mysterious, then for surprising the hell out of her with this little 'activity'. That decided, Cristina shed the much abused sweatshirt and tossed it on a chair by their gallery. She was just fluffing out her hair when she heard footsteps and an indrawn breath.

Owen was back, a .9 mm Beretta and a .22 Kimber rifle (both with safeties on and locked) in his hands. A box was wedged under one arm, presumably full of ammo, and last was eye and ear protection for two. Cristina could feel his eyes scorching her skin as he drank her in, that serious, penetrating look on his face that unnerved her. It more than unnerved her; it felt like he was stripping her past even her skin. It was sexual, and hungry, consuming really, and it made her feel vulnerable. But the truly terrifying bit was part of her liked it.

"I think you're beautiful." he murmured, so softly she almost didn't hear. He seemed to shake himself out of his daze and busied himself with setting down the guns, unlocking them and laying out the bullets on the bench in front of the range. Cristina was glad, it gave her a few moments to compose herself and get over the shock of his words.

Men had told her she was beautiful before, though she preferred 'smart', 'sexy', 'gifted' or even 'heinous bitch', more. She never believed 'beautiful'. It was a deep-rooted belief of hers that a woman could be smart, or beautiful, not both, and Cristina would take smart any day over beautiful. Too many girls and women in LA were 'beautiful', and though some were smart, they capitalized on beautiful first, using it to get what they wanted. And honestly, how many people saw a gorgeous woman and at first glance credited her with having a brain bigger than a walnut? Damn few. So when Cristina's lovers said she was beautiful, she brushed it off. Owen almost made her believe it. Almost.

"Come here." That gruff voice, the one starring in so many of her little late night musings, jolted her out of her thoughts. Again. He was smirking at her, again, holding the riffle at the ready and proffering ear/eye protection to her. Those baby-blues she never got tired of drowning in were already shielded behind those silly yellow-tinted glasses and the orange earmuffs clashed against his red hair.

Cristina made a face as she took her pair of glasses and slid them on. The green earmuffs she just hung around her neck for the moment, sure he was going to give a very longwinded, technical speech on how to shoot the riffle in his hands. Joy. Owen handed her the riffle then moved to stand behind her, strong arms coming around her to position her nerveless hands on the oak stock. His breath was warm puffs against the side of her neck and she fought hard to repress a bone deep shiver every time his stubble scraped the soft skin.

"Load the shells. Cock the bolt. Pull the butt tight into your shoulder. Breath in. Aim between the pins on the barrel, both eyes open. Squeeze, don't pull, the trigger. Breath out. Simple." He stepped away from her, her back feeling cold even as higher brain function returned. Simple. Right.

Cristina took a deep, cleansing breath in, letting it out with a whoosh. One-handed, she managed to pull the earmuffs over her ears and block out the quiet sound of his breathing behind her. In the echo-y quiet of the earmuffs, she focused on her breathing for another second, further clearing her head of all things Owen.

Load. The copper of the shells is cool under her too-warm fingers.

Cock. So dirty that little word, especially in her frame of mind, but the sound the bolt makes is satisfaction in its own way.

Ready. The butt of the gun rests naturally in the hollow of her shoulder, slender arms hefting the weight of the riffle easily. Surgery was an endurance trial in muscle control.

Steady. Breath in. Sight the target. Trust the aim is true and not off center, range is cake.

Go. Quick squeeze of the trigger, brace for any recoil. Though with the .22's it's not much.

Again. Again. Again till all ten bullets find the paper target, neatly clustered just shy of bull's-eye. The riffle leads just slightly to the left. Then again, it'd been years since the last time she'd gone target shooting.

Blank faced, Cristina laid the riffle down on the counter, flipping the safety even though it was empty and pulled off her earmuffs. She turned to Owen, and smugly congratulated herself on a) not laughing at his expression, and b) not gloating/rolling her eyes/victory dancing at/in front of him. Though the sight of russet eye brows disappearing into ginger hair was fairly comical and dance worthy. Coup de grâce, she just shrugged laconically and gave him her version of his little smirk.

Owen shook his head, a delighted grin transforming his usually harsh features. He looked younger, lighter, when he smiled like that. The sexy smirk did wonders for her, but this look, this smile... it was hers. She'd brought that out in him, and something told her not many people ever got to see this smile. His rich laughter touched her ears and sent tingles to all the right spots. It was an infectious laugh, one she could grow to love. Dropping the smirk, she smiled back and laughed with him, delighted in the whole situation, and laughing just because she could, because he was.

Taking the earmuffs from her, mirth still sparking in his eyes, he tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. The silence between them was charged again, not like in the car, where one false step would unleash the beast, but softer, still echoing with shared merriment. He shook his head again, rueful and just a little abashed. Men too often underestimated her.

"I think rules of engagement need to be laid out, yes? The asker gets to ask the attendee ten questions over the duration of the activity. The attendee has to answer, or offer up something of equal value in exchange for declining a question. Fair?"

"Shouldn't the attendee be asking the questions of the one who initiated the activity in the first place?"

"No. The asker gets the questions, so that if the attendee wants to know something, she has to initiate the next activity."

"Three, questions."

"Eight."

"Five"

"Six"

"Asking the attendee out on the activity counts as one of the six."

"Done."

"Man! That was too easy, I should have held out for three! Can I make an amendment?" Cristina makes a scandalized face, amused underneath it all that they are negotiating terms for their Not Dates.

"I'll listen." He's amused too she can tell, though she has deep reservations about answering personal questions. Not even her person got freebies on intel about Cristina's past, Meredith just got her without details. She had a feeling she'd be using a lot of 'equal exchange' tokens. Would he take sexual favors instead of answers? That could be very good.

"Questions have to at least be loosely related to the activity, and you can't just rephrase and ask any question that the attendee refused to answer. And what constitutes 'equal exchange' for rejected questions?" Best to clarify that now before working herself up even more over the idea of sex. Owen wanted to know her after all, and she'd already played the reluctant maiden, so sex probably wasn't an item on the exchange list. Pity.

"Fair amendment, I agree to that term. In exchange for not answering a question..." Owen rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking for a moment. "In exchange the attendee has to voluntarily disclose a personal fact. And not just a one or two word discloser, it has to be a substantial fact, or a casual one elaborated with history. Fair?" He held his hand out to her, to seal the deal on their terms. Cristina unconsciously rubbed the spot on her shirt just over her icicle scar while she weighed the pros and cons.

"Fair." Her slim fingers where engulfed by his as he shook her hand firmly. Not some limp wristed little shake, but a good, strong handshake like he'd give another man. Cristina hated it when she shook a man's hand and he held it like a delicate butterfly, the motion perfunctory. It always screamed lack of respect to her. Not that she was some crazed über feminist who shook everyone's hand like she was crushing beer cans, but she was a person, and felt gender shouldn't matter in the face of excellence.

Taking up the Beretta, Owen calmly loaded the clip with ammo. "First Question: Where did you learn to shoot like that? You said the military life wasn't for you." Cristina had to drag her eyes away from watching his hands handling the gun, and her mind from the gutter in order to answer his question.

"Um, it wasn't. Isn't. In high school, I was captain of the riffle team. I initially joined to piss my mother off. She and my stepfather felt that I spent too much time by myself and on academics. She gave the ultimatum that I had to join a club, or take up a sport to ensure I became a 'well rounded young lady'. She thought I'd pick up ballet again. My stepfather thought I'd go for horseback riding. I'd done both as a kid so they thought I'd stick with what I had already mastered. I picked the riffle team for spite, ended up liking it, and... yeah...that's where I learned to shoot." Cristina felt squeamish on the inside, talking about things that were behind her. And it wasn't even a super personal, drag-out-all-your-skeletons kind of question.

Except it was. She'd quit ballet and riding after her father died. He'd loved watching her do both, had encouraged and nurtured her talent. After he died, it was too hard to do either of those things, knowing he'd never be there to watch. Eventually she'd taken up riding again, not dressage, never again dressage, but jumping. To this day she hadn't so much as touched a pair of ballet shoes or a barre, even though she'd had incredible talent, even so young. She could still remember girlish dreams of Julliard and dancing her way across America and Europe. All the passion and dedication she'd put into dance, she subsumed into medicine.

Sharp blue eyes saw straight through her to all the things she didn't say. Cristina tensed, ready to bolt in the next breath. Something made her wait, just a fraction of a second longer to see what his next move was. Everything hinged on it.

A sharp nod, the click of the clip into the Beretta as he picks it up and offers it to her, a deep breath out, not a sigh, but a release of some inner tension. "Fair enough. Again?"

"Yeah." Ready. Steady. Go.