Sobering.

Season 7, Episode 9: Slow Night, So Long

November of 2010

She seemed so peaceful, and, looking at her now, he could easily forget the insanity she had been a part of that day. He could forget walking into the bar and finding her straddling someone, and he could forget how much it had stung when she had called him her boyfriend, rather than her husband. He could forget whatever anger he'd managed to work up as he carried her to his truck, and deposited her in their bed. He could overlook the frustration as he held her hair and she vomited endlessly into their toilet. He could let it all go – like desert sand rolling through his fingers – because she was here now, and she was safe, and she seemed so peaceful.

He stroked her hair back, running the washcloth over her mouth again. She was sweating, but it was only the detox getting to her. She had been drinking all day and her body was getting rid of it in violent waves. She stirred a little at the touch, her lips pressing into a frown, her forehead pinching, but then she relaxed again, and her fist balled into his shirt, and she snuggled her face up into his neck.

He smiled down at her. His little jigsaw puzzle. She was hurt right now, lost, even directionless, but he couldn't imagine her anywhere else. She was damaged, but right now she was safe. She could heal. He would make sure she did.

Her eyes opened again only twenty minutes after she had fallen asleep. She sat up a little, as if coming out of a falling dream, and then she slumped back against him and curled her toes against his leg. She sighed contently. "I think the best part of being really, really, really drunk is having you take care of me. I own a giant ginger teddy bear."

He kissed her forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Crappy." She shifted, looking up at him. She was like a child, wide-eyed, innocent, and open. It was a rare, but appealing look for her. "I'm sorry I gave that guy a lap dance."

"You didn't know what you were doing."

"But I remember it, so," she pointed a thumb at herself, smiling wryly, "Guilty." She twisted around, so she was laying sideways against him. Her head rested on the crook of his shoulder. She pulled his arm across her stomach and ran her fingers over his knuckles. "I got fired."

"I gathered."

She sighed heavily. "I suck at not being a doctor. I suck at being a wife. I just suck."

"You don't suck at anything – except maybe bartending." He pulled the hem of her nightshirt up, making small circles on her stomach with his index finger. "Go back to sleep."

"You go back to sleep. I'm not even tired."

She was out within ten minutes of saying that, falling back under the pull of alcohol. He stretched his legs, groaning, and tried to get some rest himself, but his mind kept him up. It was nagging him, stirring him, forcing him to think about the things he had been putting off.

What was she going to do when she woke up?

He had suggested she get a job because she spent three days fusing with their couch. He didn't want her to regress to that, but he didn't think she could handle any other type of profession. She was a challenging person – she was made to be a surgeon, but that was not an option. He had to find something to keep her from sinking down any further.

He retrieved his phone from the side table and flipped through his contacts. He had very few people in his life that he trusted, and Cristina was an antisocial hermit outside of the hospital. The only ones he could think to call were either on her naughty list at the moment, or on his.

Derek.

His name came up near the end because Owen had him listed as his last name only. He was tied closely with Meredith, and he had known Cristina just as long. He was an ally – the one who had watched over Cristina in the bar that night – and Owen trust him. He wasn't sure how Cristina felt about him, but it couldn't be too bad. She didn't have a dartboard with his face on it.

He sent him a text, short and to the point, asking for advice on how to direct Cristina. He didn't detail it because he knew that Derek understood the situation – how he understood it was a different matter entirely.

He laid the phone down before Derek responded, unable to keep his eyes open for much longer. He had worked through the night and he was exhausted. He knew the problem had to be resolved, but a few hours of sleep would make it so much easier. He wrapped his other arm around Cristina, his thumb on her wrist, and drifted off to the beat of her pulse.

XxX

Clarity.

Season 7, Episode 11: Disarm

January of 2011.

Owen walked from the couch to the top of the stairs, wearing a pattern into the floor. She should have been home already. He feared the worst – that she was curled up on the floor of the OR, or dead in the road somewhere, or halfway to Canada – but he tried to convince himself of the best. She was finally better, and she was doing what she always did. She had just stayed to chatter with Teddy about how brilliant they both were during the surgery. She had walked out of that OR with a new outlook on life. She was better. She was whole again.

He wanted that to be true. He wanted it more than anything.

She came up a few hours after her shift ended, bouncing on the stairs like a kid with a couple thousand pixie sticks. She embraced him at the top, smiling, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. When she pulled away he marveled at her face. It was free of shadows, free of fear. She wasn't holding anything back. She was radiant.

"H-How do you feel?" Owen asked, staying on the side of caution. He didn't want to push it. He wanted this happiness to remain for as long as possible.

She grinned at him. "I feel… liberated. I feel like I got in a pool, and then I got out and stayed in the sun for a while and dried out like a little prune, and then I got back in and it was glorious! I stayed for a valve adjustment with Teddy and I didn't freak out at all. I was fine. It was fine."

He hugged her. It was all he could do at the moment. "I'm so proud of you."

"I think this is over now," Cristina said, drawing out of his hold. She danced around the living room and then flopped onto the couch, groaning. "I think I'm over it now."

"It takes time – to heal," Owen reminded her.

"It was like that for you, but I don't think it's like that for me." She looked at him over the back of the couch, her expression calming. "It was a wall in my head – I could feel it. It's gone now."

"Just take it slow, okay?"

"I will." Her response was mature and thoughtful, but as soon as the words left her mouth she gave him a mischievous, childish smile. "Now come over here and help me celebrate."

XxX

Confide.

Season 7, Episode 15: Golden Hour

February of 2011.

"I think you should just cut this tree down. It's a lost cause."

Evelyn leaned around the tree, touching its branches fondly. "It has lived on this lawn for longer than I have – and that's saying something. You know Owen used to wrap these lights when he was little. It was his favorite thing to do on the holidays, because he got to use his father's ladder to go all the way to the top. One year he fell off and broke his arm in three places, but he came right home from the hospital and finished stringing the lights."

Cristina walked around the tree, eyeing the unsteady stepladder Evelyn was using the reach some of the higher branches. Whenever she tugged at the wires, the ladder wiggled a little. "Maybe we should wait for Owen to get here."

"He insists on doing everything himself," Evelyn said, brushing the notion off with a flick of her wrist. She pulled the last string free and handed it down to Cristina. "Besides, I thought I might get a little alone time with my daughter-in-law. You two are always working."

"Lots of dying people."

Evelyn snorted. "I understand the workload. I served in Vietnam, you know."

"I didn't know that," Cristina said, dropping the lights in the pile they had created at the base of the tree. She held her hand out as Evelyn came down the stepladder, but the solid old woman didn't take her help. She came down on her own and gathered up the lights, carrying them onto the front porch and setting them down. Cristina followed her.

Evelyn retrieved the lemonade from inside, setting it on the rails and pouring a glass for each of them. She looked at the tree while she drank. "I rode in on a clunky boat with a platoon of nurses. It was the dead of night when we made landfall. They made the women go last, so I didn't step on any of the landmines that dotted the beach. Most of them died within a few minutes."

Cristina swallowed. War stories must've run in the family for Owen. "How did you survive?"

"You have to walk on the bodies," Evelyn said nonchalantly, sipping from her glass. She looked out at the lawn now, making a sour face as she swallowed. "How is work going, darling?"

Owen must have blabbed to her. "Uh… good. It's fine."

"I've seen my fair share of war wounds, and-"

"I wasn't in a war."

"The hell you weren't," she responded with fire, but her tone dimmed a bit. She took another sip. "Listen. War is a big word. It means a lot of things. It means surviving crazy parents, or running across a battlefield, or raising kids – having someone put a gun in your face is more than most people experience in this country."

"You watch too much news."

"Well, that may be true, but you can trust me on this. I know where you are right now. I know where Owen was when you brought him to my doorstep two years ago. I want to know how you are – how you really are."

Cristina leaned against the railing, finally relenting and downing her entire drink. She let Evelyn refill it, but she let it sit in her hands, gathering condensation as the warmth of her skin spread onto the glass. She waited to see if the old woman would give in, but she had a stern, demanding look on her face, and she didn't seem inclined to throw up a white flag. She reminded Cristina of her own mother, only a little less annoying and a little more understanding.

"I still feel… afraid sometimes." Five words. She nearly choked on them. She didn't know why she had said it, or what had made her trust this woman, but she couldn't take it back.

Evelyn hummed thoughtfully, taking her time with her response. She spoke softly, gently, like Owen did, and Cristina realized that she trusted Evelyn because of her son. She saw where he got his personality from, where his empathy, his compassion, had originated.

"I don't know if Owen ever told you about his father. He died a long time ago – Owen was just a boy, barely ten. He was an engineer in the Air Force, smart as a whip and convinced he could find the secrets to life in the clouds." She gazed up, a smile cutting through the solemn look on her face. "When he came home he was always anxious. He was always afraid, whether it was the things he had seen, or the things he dreamt about. He would take Owen away for weeks at a time, out into the wilderness, and when they came back he was happy again. Owen was his sunshine. When I saw my son that day… when you brought him to me… I saw his father for a split second before I realized it was my boy. It broke my heart."

Cristina looked away as a tear rolled down the old woman's face. She was uncomfortable with her sadness, but fascinated with the story. She found herself picturing young Owen again, watching him sprint across the yard, or shove an old push mower through the grass.

"I came back because of Harry, and Harry came back because of Owen," Evelyn said, pressing her lips together. She put one arm around Cristina's shoulders and squeezed. "And Owen came back because of you. You won't be afraid forever. We'll always drag you back."

Cristina didn't know what to say to her. She was saved when a light blue truck pulled in front of the house and Owen hopped out. She went out to meet him while his mother poured another glass of lemonade.

"Sorry I'm late, I got caught up at work," Owen said. He stopped where they met in the middle of the yard, brushing a strand of her hair back with his fingers. He smiled. "What are you guys up to? Plotting world domination?"

"Among other things. Come on." She led him by his hand, stopping in the doorway. She leaned up to kiss him, and then she patted his head. "We're on break. You get to wind up the lights."

"We can just buy new lights."

"Well, that would be wasteful."

Evelyn walked through the doorway, sliding past both of them. She smiled at her son, giving him a patronizing smile. "You better get started, dear. It'll be dark soon."