Solace.

Season 6, Episode 24: Death and All His Friends.

LateOctober of 2010.

It was late. She stared through one of the tall rectangular windows, not really seeing anything beyond the raindrops meandering down the glass. She knew it was late because the police station was starting to empty out. Officers were returning to their normal duties as the tragedy died down. It was quiet now. Under her eyes, that delicate layer of skin that had been tormented with tears all day, she could feel the inflammation, the irritation. She had been crying, and the bright lamp on the desk in front of her had a fresh bulb in it.

"I need you to finish the story," the detective urged. He was young, handsome, and kind – she was sure of it – but she didn't register his face. She turned toward him, but looked past him.

She readjusted herself, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She felt like her ribcage was going to fall apart if she didn't hold onto it. "Um, he left. He left the OR. He didn't come back. Meredith brought Owen over – I mean, uh, Doctor Grey brought Doctor Hunt over – and I closed, and then they came to evacuate us. We had to wait. We couldn't move Derek – er, Doctor Shepherd. He was very unstable – is, he is very unstable. We transferred him to the ICU after that and…"

"And then you came here."

She nodded.

"I know it's hard to think about," the detective said, closing his notebook and setting his pen down on the desk. She watched it roll until it got caught up on the notebook. He reached out to her, but then seemed to think better of it. He folded his hands together, leaning in to look at her face. "I'm very thankful that you came down here. We need as many accounts of this as we can get to clear this whole thing up… so you can start to put it behind you."

She swallowed, nodding again. She couldn't speak through the lump in her throat. She looked around, her eyes falling on some of the others who had come to give statements. Jackson was there, tucked away in a corner with two detectives, and one of the nurses from pediatrics.

Owen was standing against the far wall, near the entrance, putting on his most stoic face as he spoke quietly to the police chief. He held himself strongly, but she knew he was injured. Beneath his heavy brown leather jacket was a gunshot wound, and on the injured side his arm hung in a black splint. He was holding her coat in his other hand, shaking it around as he tried to gesture to the chief. He seemed to have made a friend, or a comrade, in the other man.

She must have had quite a look on her face. When he looked over at her, just glancing up to make sure that she was still there, his brow furrowed and he cut his conversation off mid-sentence. He walked straight to her, crouching down beside her chair and putting his hand on her knee. He winced, pained by his injury, but he gave it no attention otherwise.

He spoke to the detective, his voice cold. "Are you done?"

"Yes, um, we were just finishing up," the detective responded.

Owen stood and pulled Cristina out of her chair. He put his uninjured arm around her, holding her against his side like he was afraid someone was going to take her away. He leaned in, his voice low and sweet, a harsh contrast to how he had spoken to the detective. "Ready to go home?"

"Keep a close eye on her," the detective said, empathy in his eyes. He backed off a bit, retrieving his notebook and flipping through it. He spoke distractedly next, like he had become caught up in his notes. "Things like this have a way of setting in later."

She walked to the door, watched over like a newborn by Owen. He helped her into her coat and buttoned it for her, reaching out to stroke her cheek before he opened the door for her. She felt numb, like it could have been any other day, but at the same time her memories of the events that took place kept repeating themselves. The most disturbing part was how they were distorted. Each time she saw the gun again, heard him issuing commands, and the little details in the room shifted around. The more she grasped at it, the less she knew about it.

On the sidewalk she stopped, looking in the direction of the hospital. Owen ran his hand up and down her back and she leaned into his hold, glad for it. She didn't know if she was standing on her own power at the moment.

"We should check on Derek and Meredith," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Hey," he responded, matching her quiet tone. He tipped her head up, his fingers on her jaw. "They're fine. They're in good hands. Teddy is with them." He pressed a kiss to her forehead "I'm taking you home. Come on."

She sighed and walked with him, glad that he was making the decisions. She kept her eyes ahead, listening to the sound of her own feet on the concrete. She focused on Owen's labored breaths, and the knots in her stomach, and the memories slipping away from her with every passing second. She counted the pulse in her forehead from the migraine that ate into her gums. She looked up at every traffic light, watching the colors change.

She didn't pay attention to where they were going.

Once they were inside the apartment she felt a little more. She wasn't afraid, or devastated, or traumatized, but sort of empty. She stood in the kitchen and looked around, wondering what she had ever seen in this quiet, cold place. It had too many flat surfaces, and not enough color.

Owen helped her out of her coat and tossed it onto the couch, guiding her by her elbow into the bedroom. He turned the shower on, and as soon as she heard the water Cristina rushed toward it. She released the coils in her stomach as vomit, hanging over the toilet until the convulsions stopped. Owen slipped down beside her, holding her hair back with one hand. He was on painkillers – strong ones – and it was starting to get to him. She could see a haze in his eyes, in his expression. He was finally feeling something, too.

She couldn't get her hands to stop shaking, but she managed to rewrap Owen's arm and make sure that the staples had held. She ended up sitting up in bed with him, staring at the far wall like she was in some kind of daydream – she just let her eyes stay there, let the room spin around her.

She wanted to say something to him about what had happened, but she couldn't find the words or the energy. She was losing it already. It felt like a bad dream, like another lifetime. This day had been going on forever and they were finally at the end of it. Thunder rumbled outside and drew her attention, and she was reminded of sprinkling rain. Not a storm, not a shower. It was just a sprinkle that would bathe the hospital and wipe away this night.

"It's going to be okay," Owen murmured. He was propped up on one of her pillows, speaking through a considerable helping of painkillers, but his voice still resonated with her. "Cristina?"

"I know," she responded. She sounded strange, almost emotionless. Her words rang out coldly in their silent bedroom. She tried again, but she sounded so clinical, so far away. "He's dead. I know it's okay… I know."

He was silent for a moment, and then he tried to sit up. She stopped him, putting her hand flat on his chest, and then she curled up against him. She stared at the bandaging on his shoulder, but she had to look away when she heard that shot ringing out again. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "It's really going to be okay. I promise." He stroked her hair, and then pressed a crooked finger to her cheek. He craned his neck to see her face.

Finally he got to her. She jerked away from him, momentarily angry, and then she felt exhausted, and afraid, and useless, and helpless, all in the same second. It came upon her in a wave and her head dropped to his chest. She let out a whimper and his arm tightened around her. She focused on his warmth, his scent, and the strong, steady beating of his heart, allowing tears to roll slowly and silently down her face. She held onto him like a lifeline, bracing herself for what was coming.

She cried.

In the OR she had cried because there was a gun inches from her cheek, and her best friend's husband's heart was literally in her hands. One wrong move and everything would have come down in flames. It was an incredible event, an incredible circumstance, and it had terrified her. She had never been so afraid. She had never felt so helpless.

She was crying now because she was alive. It was strange to her, but she let it happen. She let the gratitude swell over her. Jackson had been clever enough, the shooter had been gullible enough, she had been skilled enough, and the rescuers had been quick enough to keep the people in that room alive. She was alive. She was alive and she had Owen.

He ran his hand down her cheek, catching the tears on his fingertips. He smiled at her, showing that he understood. "I've got you now," he murmured into her hair. "You are fine, and no one is going to hurt you, okay? I won't let anyone hurt you."

She gasped, but it came out as a sort of laugh. She nodded into his neck. "You're the one who got shot."

"I'm not dead."

She pulled away a little, resting on his uninjured shoulder, and put her hand on his face. His eyes were shining. His cheek was warm under her palm. She loved him like this. "I'm glad you're not dead," she whispered.

He laughed a short, sad laugh. "I'm glad you're not dead, too."

"Let's stay this way, okay? Not dead."

"I don't know, I was planning on going skydiving tomorrow."

He smiled boyishly, and she smiled back. She snuggled into his neck again, holding back another round of tears. She didn't want to cry anymore. He started whispering to her, repeating what he had said already and adding in sweet promises where he could. He only went quiet when she shut her eyes, and even then he went on stroking her hair.

"I love you," she whispered, catching his hand halfway down her head. She wrapped her fingers around her thumb and pulled his arm around her.

He kissed her forehead. "I love you."

It wasn't better, and it wasn't over, but for a few hours it felt like it was going to be okay.