A/N: Sorry it took so long to update! I did absolutely no writing while I was camping, which set me way behind, and was then on vacation with my family in Hawaii, which put me behind some more. I also had to take a little bit of a break to figure out exactly where this was going to go, because I was starting to realize that I was just writing aimlessly, and the story was starting to go places I didn't want it to. Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter (long ago as it was) and I've now got a pretty good idea where things are going to go, so everything should be back on track in terms of updating.
Happy reading, and don't forget to leave a review!
When Owen opened the door, all he could see was white. From where he stood on the veranda, he couldn't even tell that they were in a forest, so thick was the snow coverage. In fact, Owen wasn't sure he'd ever seen so much snow in his life. It looked as if someone had taken one of those picturesque landscapes you saw on a Christmas card, and dumped several tons of snow on it. Anything that had been left out before—including Cristina's bike and his truck—were merely white lumps; the truck only distinguishable because one side mirror happened to have broken through the snow coverage.
There was no way he was going anywhere. Even if he were by some miracle able to get the truck uncovered—though that task alone would likely take him all day—there was no way he'd be able to get it anywhere. There was simply too much snow coverage on the roads. They were stuck here until the ploughs came around and cleared them out.
As if to cement his resolve, the wind whistled through the clearing, piercing through Owen's leather jacket and pelting his face with snow at such a force that it stung his cheeks. It isn't supposed to be this cold in Seattle, he thought, ramming his hands deeper into his pockets in a desperate attempt to warm them. This kind of winter is supposed to be the kind that we experience in movies or by visiting other places where this kind of thing is routine. It's not supposed to happen here. Still, he couldn't really complain about the weather that much; it had, after all, given him two days of Cristina's undivided attention. Hardly undivided, his subconscious snorted. She was delirious most of the time.
Still, he argued, she's awake now, isn't she? There was plenty of opportunity for something to arise.
He shouldn't. He knew that much. Involving himself with Cristina now was a bad idea. He was an emotional train-wreck, fraught with PTSD and nightmarish memories of people—friends, comrades, and enemies alike—being blown apart in front of his eyes. The last thing he should be doing right now is trying to start a relationship with someone—though he still wasn't sure if she was the kind of person who did relationships—and yet, somehow, he couldn't stay away, either. Derek had been right, she was like the finest brand of single malt, and she drew him to her like a moth was drawn to a flame, regardless of what his better judgement might be.
Granted, he hadn't come here looking for her. Fate, if you will, had brought them here together. He'd just have to wait and see what happened. He wouldn't try and start anything with her, but, well, if things happened, he wasn't about to say no either. The memory of their last encounter in the boiler room was still fresh in mind.
"Back so soon?" Cristina asked with mock seriousness, glancing up from her perch in the armchair as he re-entered the trailer, stamping his feet to dislodge the worst of the snow. "I thought you said you'd be gone at least a couple of hours."
"I'm not going anywhere," he replied, shaking some snow out of his hair. He sat down on the bench and unlaced his boot, pausing to dump some three inches of snow out of his boot. It scattered everywhere, like flour, haphazardly turning patches of floor space white. "The truck's completely buried. By the time I dug it out, you'd probably be on your way to work."
"Oh really?" she said dryly, setting aside Ellis' journal, even though she hadn't had enough time to even open it. It had taken all of her effort to make it to the damn chair, and she'd very nearly not made it. Not that she'd ever let Owen know that. "Well, what did you expect? In case you didn't notice, there was a freaking blizzard."
He said nothing, and Cristina couldn't help savouring the small victory. Being sick and taken care of by Owen had robbed her of all her sense of control and had left her feeling helpless, a feeling that she hated more than anything. Ever since her father had died, and she'd been forced to sit there, not able to do anything to save him, she had loathed the feeling that things were out of her control. It was why it had bothered her so much that the solo surgery had been taken from her: she'd just felt like she couldn't do anything. She'd deserved to be there, and there was nothing she could do to make that happen.
"What are you doing?"
Owen was staring at her incredulously, as if he couldn't understand what she was doing.
"I'm sitting." What did it look like she was doing?
"No, I mean why aren't you in bed? You should be resting, Cristina," he added gently.
"I am!" she protested, gesturing around at the chair she was lounging in and then snatching up Ellis' diary, as if to prove her point. "See? Resting."
Owen, however, did not look convinced. "How did you even get there?" he asked, looking from the bed to the chair and back again, unable to fathom how she had done it.
"I walked." Again, obvious.
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair in frustration and stalked into the kitchenette.
"Where are you going?" Cristina couldn't help thinking that he was being really childish about this. He was asking blatantly obvious questions and getting frustrated when she gave him equally obvious answers in return.
"To the kitchen," he replied curtly. Two can play this game.
She was infuriating. He was asking her serious questions, questions that concerned her general health and well being, and, instead of giving him legitimate answers, she was smart-mouthing him. He loved her stubbornness, her competitiveness, and even her tendency to be snarky, blunt, and rude, but sometimes—like now—it made him crazy.
At the same time, however, he was impressed at her stubbornness. She was pretty weak after the draining bout of fever—pneumonia zapped just about everything you had—and yet she'd managed to get out of bed and across the trailer to the chair in the time he had been outside, an impressive feat considering she hadn't been able to prop herself up unaided earlier. She'd probably had to crawl. He still wasn't sure whether this made her incredibly determined or incredibly stupid.
She was a surgeon. She knew what pneumonia did to people, and she knew what was required of patients recovering from pneumonia. She knew she should be in bed, but, as Owen had discovered, Cristina only obeyed the rules so long as they suited her purposes. And she didn't really care what other people wanted her to do.
The kettle was still on the stove, its water now cooled. He'd completely forgotten about it in all the commotion, and now couldn't even remember why he'd boiled the water in the first place. "You really should be in bed," he said, moving the kettle off the stovetop. He knew that his words weren't going to change anything, but he felt the need to say them anyway.
Cristina rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Ellis' diary, clearly uninterested in continuing the conversation. "I'm fine. I feel great. There's nothing—" She broke off, overcome by harsh, barking coughs that wracked her frame.
"—Wrong with you?" Owen finished, trying not to smile. He'd never seen her sick before, but he assumed that this was her usual M.O.: push herself to recover regardless of whether she was physically ready or not.
"I just need some Advil or something," she rasped, masterfully attempting to subdue the cough. "It's just a cough."
He wanted to remind her that the "cough" was following on the heels of a nearly life-threatening bout of pneumonia, but didn't, knowing it wasn't going to do any good. He'd just have to keep an eye on her himself. "At least let me make you some tea," he said, unable to resist saying something. "It'll make your throat feel better."
The expression on her face told him exactly what Cristina thought about that suggestion. "I'm fine," she persisted stubbornly.
Owen shook his head, chuckling. "Thank God you're a surgeon. I'd feel bad for any doctor who had to look after you."
Cristina couldn't help smiling at this, remembering all too well the last time she had been a patient. "I expect Dr Bailey could tell you all about it."
The expression on Owen's face was priceless. She had been seized by a momentary panic after realizing what she'd said would force her to explain the circumstances—she'd had an ectopic pregnancy—which would lead to discussing Burke—someone she didn't want to talk about with Owen ever if she could avoid it—but it had dissipated when she saw his face: completely and utterly flabbergasted. If it were possible for jaws to literally hit the floor, his would be there.
The laughter began as a tiny bubble inside of her, one that she knew she should repress for politeness' sake—even though politeness was never something she'd given a damn about. Slowly, it got bigger, expanding to fill her chest cavity to the point that she thought she would burst if she didn't let a little out. She tried valiantly to hold it in one last time, before giving up and letting it explode out of her like air rushing out of a balloon.
It wasn't just his face she laughed at, but at everything that had happened in the last few days, from her having to watch Alex Karev, of all people, performing her solo surgery and then getting drunk with Callie, to Owen showing up at the trailer and her getting pneumonia. Now that it was all over, she found the series of misfortunes hilarious, and had been trying not to laugh about it ever since Owen had gone outside to check the truck. This was simply the last straw.
It felt good. It had been weeks since she'd really laughed, not since before her fight with Meredith. She laughed until her sides ached and she dissolved into a fit of hacking that left her doubled over, chest burning, mouth thick phlegm.
"Here." The glass of water and the tissue thrust into her face were a relief. Never having been someone who cared about propriety, she didn't feel the least self conscious spitting into the tissue; it wasn't like she was going to keep all that gross stuff in her mouth and the sink was too far away for her to manage on wobbly legs. She crumpled the tissue and dropped it on the table, snatching up the glass of water and drinking it greedily, tipping half of it on her chest in her haste. Drops of water dribbled down her chin, enlarging the already-fair-sized puddle on the front of her T-Shirt. It made her feel like a child, which was both humiliating and infuriating.
"Maybe you should consider resting in bed." Owen's voice was soft. Soothing. The kind you'd use when talking to a child. It made her want to hit him.
"I'm fine," she snapped, hating how feeble and croaky her voice sounded. "Stop asking."
Owen sighed, retreating to the kitchen again, empty glass in tow. He set the glass down in the sink and snagged a dishtowel from the peg by the sink, tossing it deftly at her. Cristina was glad that it landed neatly on the arm of the chair; she wasn't sure she had the strength to reach for it if it had landed farther away.
"Nice throw," she said appreciatively, wanting desperately to talk about something other than her health. She was afraid that further conversation would lead to her finally admitting that Owen might actually be right; she was really tired, after all.
He shrugged nonchalantly, turning his attention to the kettle, which he'd just put on the stove. "I played baseball when I was younger."
"Oh." That was a branch of conversation that Cristina couldn't pretend to follow. She had never been one for athletics in school, but Owen was just the type. She could picture him on the field, muscular arms exposed by the sleeves of his jersey...
Cristina closed her eyes and the image shattered. The last thing she wanted to be doing right now was fantasizing about Owen. She bigger things to worry about, like the fact that she may or may not be able to get in to work tomorrow. She'd already missed two shifts, and—even though the Chief would be understanding if she couldn't make it because she was snowed in—she couldn't miss another one for the sake of her sanity. Being in close proximity with Owen Hunt turned her into some sort of lust-crazed teenager, which was very hard to keep a lid on. Even when she was sick, all she'd been able to think about—though they were more like hallucinations than actually thoughts—was him. That kiss in the boiler room haunted her, and—coupled with the memory of him throwing her up against the wall outside Joe's and now the dim memory of his lips brushing her forehead to check her temperature—made her dizzy with pent-up longing.
She'd come here to escape. She'd come out to the trailer—her own personal Dermatology—to get away from her crazy lust for Owen and give herself time and space to sort herself out, and had instead ended up stuck here with the very man she'd sought to avoid. The irony of this situation was almost laughable.
The kettle whistled shrilly, a sound that grated against Cristina's inner ears until Owen moved the kettle onto the counter. Silently, he pulled a mug out of the cupboard and filled it with water, adding a tea bag—a recent addition to the trailer; Derek wasn't a tea kind of guy—and a couple dollops of honey—where that came from she had no idea. To her newly lust-addled brain—courtesy of the baseball comment—all of it looked incredibly sexy. Had she had more strength, she would have had to try very hard not to jump him right then and there.
"Milk?" he asked calmly, oblivious to the effect he was having on her.
"Um, sure," Cristina replied, stunned. She wasn't a tea drinker, and had no idea whether or not milk was something she wanted, but it seemed to be a fairly common thing to put in tea, like adding cream to coffee. The hasty answer was probably a result of the fact that her ability to think rationally had gone completely out the window.
It wasn't until he handed her the mug that she noticed the jagged scar—very sexy her subconscious whispered before she could squash it down—running across his knuckles. It was obviously new, the skin was still raw and red, and she knew if he were to bang it against something, it would start bleeding again. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, hoping for a particularly gruesome story to distract herself from the porny thoughts springing to mind regarding the abilities of that hand.
Owen glanced down at his hand, having completely forgotten what had happened to it. The jagged scab crossed his knuckles like a brand, a fiery reminder of his problem. Beware! it seemed to scream. PTSD alert! Rationally, he knew that Cristina wouldn't come to the same conclusion—at least not right away—but if anyone who had known him before—say Teddy, or any of the men who he'd had the honour of serving with (particularly the senior officers who had seen fit to dismiss him—honourably, but a dismissal none the less—shortly after the beginning of his last tour)—were to see it, that would likely be the first thing that came to mind. The knowledge made him want to hit something.
"Nothing," he said shortly, avoiding her gaze.
"Oh and the skin just split open of it's own accord, did it?" she asked dryly.
"No," he muttered sullenly, clenching the hand in question reflexively into a fist. The urge to hit something—not excluding Cristina—was getting stronger.
"Well, then how did it happen?" she prodded, making Owen feel very much like a patient being chastised for withholding information from his doctor.
"I punched a tree," he admitted finally, with great reluctance.
Cristina stared at him like he had grown an extra head. "You punched a tree," she repeated, tone completely devoid of emotion.
"Yes." It was getting very hard to keep a lid on his frustration. He understood that what he had done was rash, impulsive, and very stupid, and her reaction wasn't making things any better.
"Why?"
Owen sighed, rubbing his face. This was where things got complicated. If he gave her the honest answer—I was furious at you for being stupid enough to storm off by yourself into unfamiliar territory in a fucking blizzard and frustrated because I couldn't find you—it would likely lead to more questions, which could in turn lead to a discussion about his PTSD. However, he wasn't so sure that he'd be able to lie to Cristina Yang. She seemed to be one of those people born with the uncanny knack to catch a lair. And getting caught in a lie would definitely lead to PTSD discussions—something he was desperately trying to avoid.
"How's the tea?" he asked instead, hoping to buy himself some time.
"Fine," she replied brusquely, not at all willing to be deterred. "My throat's feeling much better. Stop avoiding the question."
In the end, honesty prevailed. "I was frustrated that I couldn't find you."
"Oh." This, obviously, had not been what she was expecting. "Well, let me see it," she said, tone quickly becoming brisk as she slipped into doctor mode.
He expected her grip to be firm and professional, similar to the one they used on patients, but her touch was surprisingly gentle. She looked at the wound from several angles before prodding the scab gently with her fingertips. Owen flinched, not because it was painful, but because her touch was like an electric shock, leaving all the nerves in his hand tingling. Cristina seemed to be suffering similarly, because she dropped his hand and looked away hastily.
"Well, it's not serious." Her voice came out almost choked-sounding, like she was trying very hard to suppress something. Owen was having the same difficulty; he was incredibly aware of her presence—as well as her proximity—and the desire to reach over and kiss her was nearly overpowering.
"Well that's an acute observation," he snapped.
Cristina flinched as if he'd slapped her. He couldn't understand exactly where any of this anger was coming from either. It was just...too much. The pent up frustration at everything that had happened to her, at his PTSD, at not being able to touch her when he wanted to so badly; he just needed someone to take it out on. And she was here.
"Next time, maybe I'll just let it fester. It's not like you were paying it any attention." True to form, she was quick to recover with anger of her own.
"If you hadn't gone running out in the middle of a damn blizzard there wouldn't be anything to look at in the first place!"
Cristina's eyes widened disbelievingly and her mouth set in a thin, white line. "That's what this is about? So what if I got lost in the woods? For God's sake, Owen, get over it!"
"Get over it? You almost died, Cristina! In fact, had I not found you when I did, you would have died!" he snapped, unable to believe she could treat all that had happened as if it was nothing.
"Well, thanks for that. Maybe next time you should leave me there so you won't be burdened with having to look after me," she retorted, eyes blazing.
Burdened? Did she honestly think she was a burden to him? He'd never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. "You shouldn't even have been out there in the first place! What would possess you—You didn't even have any idea where you were going! You wouldn't have been able to find your way in clear weather, let alone in a fucking blizzard!"
"Well, I wasn't exactly thinking about where I was going at the time! I was more focused on getting as far away from you as I possibly could!" she spat, fist clenching tighter around Ellis' diary. The rational part of Owen's brain—small as it may have been in that moment—warned that she might very well throw it at him if he wasn't careful.
"Just because I told Derek Shepherd that you were out here at the trailer with me? Why is that such a big deal, Cristina?" That was one thing about her he was never going to get. Why was it such a big deal that the two of them were stuck here? He didn't care about telling Derek, and he wouldn't care if she told Meredith, so why was it so important to her?
"Because he'll tell Meredith! And then she'll think—" She broke off, cheeks flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment, he wasn't sure.
"She'll think what? It's not a big deal, Cristina. We're both stuck here because of the weather. Lots of people are getting stuck places because of the storm. Nobody's going to think anything of it," Owen said, feeling some of the anger drain out of him.
Cristina sighed, a heavy, frustrated sound. "Because we—she knows that I—because of this," she spluttered, grabbing him by the collar of the shirt and pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was in no way gentle. They were both filled with pent-up longing for each other and the vestiges of anger—both at each other and at themselves—all of which they took out on each other. She tasted of tea, sweet and warm, and it made Owen burn—badly. It had only been three days since they'd kissed, but it felt like years had passed, and at the same time, it felt like it had only been moments before. He swore he could hear the hissing of the boilers as her tongue probed into his mouth, battering at his own with a ferocious need that made it very hard for him to resist taking her right there. His hands tangled into her hair, the ebony curls tumbling wild and unbound around her face, tangled from days of tossing and turning in bed, and she felt like she was both floating and drowning at the same time. It was everything she had remembered from the boiler room and more—all the sensation much more poignant, fuelled by anger and lust that hadn't been there—or at least hadn't been as strong—the last time. I've forgotten how good make-up sex is, she thought, and then immediately wished she hadn't. They weren't supposed to be doing that—but there was no telling what would happen now and if Owen...well, if it was anything like the way he kissed, she wouldn't be saying no.
Eventually, the need for air pulled them both apart. Owen's face was flushed, his eyes blue pools of desire, hair standing up in tufts from where she had latched onto it, and Cristina was sure she looked equally dishevelled. She could hear the sound of her heart hammering against her ribcage, mingling with the sounds of her and Owen's laboured breaths. Sickness be damned, she wanted him now more than ever.
He seemed to catch on to her train of thought—though the fact that her gaze was sliding between him and the bed was a dead give-away—and, for a moment, she thought he might simply sweep her up and carry her away to oblivion, but instead he turned away, face hardening.
"I'd better go start shovelling," he said, quietly.
And with that, he grabbed his coat and left.