Thank you, as always, for the reviews, dear readers. To the guest reviewer suggesting I delve into Cristina's psyche more, I have a pretty substantial part of the story dedicated to that particular development, so stick with me for the ride, and I promise you'll get it. I highly anticipate your critique once we get there.

This chapter involves a scene from early on in Owen's storyline and one of my favorite scenes in the whole show. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of it.

Owen laid awake in bed the following night, unable to sleep with the weight of this disappearance on his shoulders. He had gone to the firehouse, praying Cristina hadn't already changed the locks. She was in the process of selling the house, but couldn't find a buyer in time for the move, so she did what she could: kept it on the market until a seller came along. He hadn't really thought about it, but during closing, she would have to come back to Seattle in person to sign the papers. Would she have even told him? She was so damn hard to read sometimes. He couldn't tell if she wanted a clean break; to leave without so much as a trace, or if she wanted to stay in contact and keep their relationship on the table. They weren't separating on bad terms, she was just moving on with her career, so surely she didn't want to forget they ever happened, right?

Their communication was a train wreck at best. The fault wasn't simply on one or the other. They both failed abysmally on that front. For him, it was a masculinity complex. Guys didn't want to talk about that kind of stuff; didn't want to be seen as vulnerable, especially to the person that relied on them to keep them safe and to be strong through the times they felt weak. Not only were these societal standards key in understanding his communication breakdown, but his PTSD undoubtedly played a substantial role. His cheeks turned red at the thought of his PTSD meltdowns in front of Cristina. It was embarrassing to him the things that she had seen. He thought back to the first time he had shown this weakness; to the time she taught him a lesson in humility he wouldn't soon forget.

After their "first date" ended the way that it did, Owen hardly expected Cristina to give him another chance. He could've left it at that. He had no stakes in this game; hell, he hardly knew this woman, but there was something about her that made him want to pursue this, even at the cost of his pride, and so he told her he wanted her to give him a second chance.

"You've got some problems. You've got some big problems," she had said. Boy, was that putting it lightly. Nonetheless, by some miraculous stroke of luck, she agreed to see him again.

He was happy. They were both happy with the prospect of seeing one another again-or rather, seeing one another for the first time, in reality. Nothing could bring his mood down except one thing.

He had seen Cristina in the hallway, walking from the O.R. to the cafeteria. He stared at her longingly, loving the way her black hair rested on her shoulders; how her lips curved up ever so slightly as she eyed him just as longingly. He could be happy with her. He saw something in her that he had never seen in another woman: a future.

Sure, it was new and exciting, but he couldn't ignore this new sensation within him that told him she's the one to watch. She was a game changer for him.

He had gotten lost in these thoughts when a flash of platinum blonde hair caught his attention. He averted his eyes from Cristina momentarily, praying he had been mistaken. As soon as he laid eyes on her, it all came flooding back.

A blasted Humvee, bullets whizzing past his head, one of his own shouting into the walkie talkie-something about an ambush, a severed arm to his left, a foot to his right, and on top of it all, no medical supplies to speak of. The man had an AK-47 wound to the heart, and all he had to open him up with was a damn combat knife. Open him up? He scoffed. He couldn't even begin to think of opening him up until he had something to repair his heart with. Hunt's own heart had never raced faster; his adrenaline had never pumped harder. He could see the tent from where he sat, but barely. Wave after wave of smoke poured in around him, but he decided he could make it if he remembered his training and didn't panic. He hoisted the wounded soldier across his shoulders and threw caution to the wind. He focused on his steps, counting each one as he neared closer and closer to the tent. When he arrived, he placed the soldier on the table, shouting out orders to his comrades, giving his condition and asking for supplies. He slipped a mask on, about to ask for a scalpel, when he realized no one around him was moving. "Wh-" he was about to ask when he looked down at his brother and realized he had stroked out on the way over. He had flatlined far too long ago to revive him now, and Hunt hadn't even realized it. He tore the mask from his face and started hyperventilating, praying that someone would turn on the goddamn rain before he himself had a stroke.

'Where's the fucking air' Owen thought, grasping at his scrub top, trying to pry away the clothing that was suffocating him more and more with each moment that passed. He paced the trauma room once, twice, when Cristina barged into the room, confused.

"What's going on?" She asked lightheartedly, smiling, thinking Owen was playing some sort of game. Her demeanor rapidly changed as she witnessed her first PTSD episode. "What happened?" She pursued him at a rapid pace, and he actively avoided her advances.

"Sorry," he kept saying, forcing his back to her. He had just gotten her back. He had to calm down before he scared her off. He continued his attempts to wave her back and away from him until he could learn to control himself. She wouldn't relent. "Just leave me alone," he said, his movements sporadic and unsure, turning to her, then away from her, until he knew he had to explain. "I saw…someone-someone I knew," he said rapidly, still avoiding her concerned gaze.

"You're shaking," she said, watching him intensely.

"I can't-I-I-I can't do this. I can't do this," he repeated, continuing his pacing around the room. His breathing increased dramatically. "Please go away," he pleaded. He didn't want her to see him that way. He was supposed to be strong; to pull icicles out of her, not to shake and sob like a child right in front of her.

She made an advance toward him, though he didn't realize it until she was directly upon him. "It's okay, it's okay," she said gently embracing his shoulder.

He fought it like a toddler having a tantrum. He threw her hands off of his shoulders, screaming "No!" she backed off for the moment. "I don't want this," he said, taking the offensive.

Her ceasefire didn't last long, as she then caught him by surprise, enveloping him in her arms from behind. He panicked and tried desperately to throw her off of him. "Okay, I'm applying deep pressure here," she said loudly so that he would hear her.

"I don't want this," he sobbed over and over again as she gripped him tightly against her small body.

"To relax your sympathetic nervous system." He tried to grab her hands and pull them apart; to release her hold on him, but she fought back hard. Finally, he relented a fraction, crossing his arms over hers and gripping the material on his scrubs. He let the tears fall then, as he let Cristina comfort him in his time of panic. "You will feel more panicked at first. You'll try to resist it," Owen made one final attempt to pry her away from him, attempting to strip her arms from across his chest. "You'll try to resist it," Cristina repeated, "but eventually, you will feel your pulse rate slow."

The fight was over. An odd but beautiful sight they were, a petite Cristina using her entire body to envelope a robust Hunt in a moment of comfort and compassion. Instead of gripping them to pry them away from him, Owen now gripped Cristina's hands over him to keep them there. He hunched his back then, physically incapable of carrying his own weight in that moment, while gravity drug them both to the floor. Cristina propped her chin on his shoulder, refusing to release her grip on him even a fraction, until he decided he wanted her to. She could maintain her post as long as he needed her.

"Owen," she said softly; kindly after a moment, when his sobs had quieted to steady breathing. He looked down at her hands, still holding fiercely around him. He grabbed them softly in his own, gently breaking them away from one another. His much larger hands swallowed hers as he brought them to his lips, kissing them tenderly. His mind was still reeling, and he still shook relentlessly, but he looked over his shoulder at her, and she smiled a comforting smile, assuring him that eventually, he would be okay. He let her go then, watching her curiously to see what she would do. She rose, walking to stand in front of him. She extended her hand. "Come on," she demanded without hesitation. He looked up at her, fearing she didn't know what she was getting herself into. "I'm not letting you go into surgery like this. You're coming with me," she insisted, reasserting her hand forward for emphasis. He shook his head and took her hand, appeasing her demands.

He didn't say a word as she led him down the hospital halls. They both kept their heads down, fearing the judgmental stares of the gossip hounds of Seattle Grace, should they be recognized. After what seemed like a lifetime, Cristina found an empty on-call room, albeit, an on-call room the size of a broom closet, but an empty one nonetheless, and dragged him inside, closing the door behind her. He stood staring at her, his conflicted stare boring into her. She stared too for a moment, trying to read his expression, but finally came to the conclusion that they weren't going to reach a conclusion that night and climbed into the bed, goading him in as well. He sighed, imagining how comfortable it would be to sleep there, sharing her warmth and quiet. He slid into the bed, settling to her left side, as she withdrew a leather-bound book from the drawer next to her. He first tried to lay on his back, not wanting to make her more uncomfortable than she likely already was by cuddling up against her.

It didn't last long as Cristina noticed his discomfort. Without so much as a glance, she took his hand away from its resting place on his stomach and held it in hers against her own abdomen. He looked at her then, mesmerized by the person lying beside him. How could this person who didn't even know him be so understanding; so sympathetic toward this-this lunatic he had probably displayed himself as today? He decided he wouldn't fight her anymore. He was exhausted and on-edge and wanted her comfort and stability more than anything in the world. He let go of his macho exterior and spoke to her sincerely. "I'm sorry," he whispered, awaiting her reaction.

Her eyes turned from the book as she smiled down on him. "Okay," she said squeezing his hand and returning to her story. He sighed and moved up the bed to lay his head on her chest. Her brows furrowed as she looked down at his rusty hair, but she eventually accepted it, allowing him to encircle her tiny waist with his arms and settle into her.

He remembered nothing else about that day, as he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, she was also asleep, resting her head against his. She hadn't moved all night, staying faithfully by him in his time of need. He reached around and grabbed her hand, which had settled on his neck as if he might flee in the night and brought it around to settle in her lap. He slowly inched his way off of her, and almost successfully made it off the bed when her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him, confused. "I'll be right back. I'm going to go get us some coffee," he whispered, leaning back over the foot of the bed so that she could hear him. She nodded, sinking further onto the mattress and shutting her eyes once more. He lingered for a moment, watching her turn on her side, grasping the pillow under her. He walked to the side of the bed and crouched down to be at her level. This woman was amazing, and he couldn't wait to tell her that every day for the rest of his life. He pushed the hair back against her head and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She smiled unconsciously then, burying herself into the pillow. He chuckled and quietly exited the room, completely oblivious as to the turmoil that would ensue as a result of falling in love with Cristina Yang.

Hunt sighed, turning from his back to his side. If-When she came back to him, he would do better. He would not skip therapy and would make sure she went as well. He would make her talk to him; would make her release her fears and anxieties onto him, and he would carry them with her, just as she had and would continue to carry his. They would talk about kids, and about what they both did, but ultimately, it didn't matter to him right now. The only thing that mattered to him was that she make it home; that he didn't have to sleep in this bed alone; that he be allowed the privilege of holding her in his arms until the day he died.

He started to choke up at the thought of her suffering, God knows where, probably injured, and most definitely starving and cold-that is, if she even made it to the ground alive. He shook it off, knowing it was doing him absolutely no good to assume the worst. It was early at this point, and almost time for him to get up and go to work. Despite this, he was about to drift off when the phone buzzed on his bedside table.

He reached for it urgently. "Hello?"