This is one of my favorite chapters. I tend to get a little soft when it comes to Owen and Cristina and perhaps even a little repetitive, so I hope you'll forgive me for that. I just feel like given Owen's personality, he would be especially attentive and gentle with Cristina during this time. Anyway, as usual, please enjoy.

Dr. Sheehan walked quickly through the hallways with Richard and Owen. Bailey had split off with another doctor to tend to Arizona. They had agreed to meet up with her later. "The combination of extreme exhaustion, dehydration, and exposure seems to have put her in a state."

"What do you mean?" Richard asked hesitantly.

Hunt's heart shattered when he reached Cristina's hospital room and peered in. He wasn't listening to a word Dr. Sheehan said. He just needed to get to her. Her eyes were open wide and black as night as she lay like a stone, completely unmoving. He moved toward her rapidly, concern filling him as he approached her bed. His heart broke even more when he saw that she was restrained. Don't worry. I'm going to get you out of those. You're not dangerous. I know. He wanted to see her; to hold her; to comfort her in whatever way she would allow him to. I'm going to get you out of this.

"We think it's reactive psychosis." He had tuned Sheehan out completely, unlatching the railing on her bed. "She's unresponsive and then when we go to examine her, she becomes…violent." Owen sat on her bed then, taking her in. Her face was covered in dirt and her hair filled with twigs, but she was the most beautiful sight he had ever witnessed. She had come back to him, and he was never letting her go again.

"I'm here, okay?" he said softly, tenderly. He needed her to know it was him, her husband, the man who loved her so deeply, and needed so desperately for her to be okay. He started to unbuckle the restraints on her wrists, becoming angered that they had gone to such drastic lengths.

"I wouldn't do that." This just angered him further, but Richard handled it for him.

"It's alright," he said, watching with curiosity.

Truthfully, he didn't know how violent she had been until he unbuckled the second cuff, and she launched her arm at him forcefully. He understood then, why they needed the restraints. "Whoa," he said, reacting quickly to her attack. He caught her hand in both of his as she fought against him unrelentingly. "All right. All right," he struggled against her as he tried to soothe her. He noticed she didn't fight with her whole body, just her arms. It was most certainly reactive, he decided. She didn't know what she was doing. "Cristina," he held the flailing arm in one hand and cradled her with the other pulling her tight against him. "I'm going to help you. I'm going to help you," he repeated. "Cristina, I'm here," he soothed, and she suddenly gave up her fight, allowing him to hold her. "I'm here. I'm here. I'm here." He cradled her head and said it over and over again, assuring her that he was there, and he was not going anywhere. "Cristina, I'm here now." He rocked her gently, so grateful to have her back in his arms. "It's okay," he soothed, softly stroking her hair as he spoke. "I'm going to help you. Shh." His tender words slowed her heart rate, and he felt her slightly relax in his embrace.

They sat like that for a few moments before Webber spoke up. "Hunt, you stay here and take care of her. Miranda and I can manage the rest."

Hunt nodded in their embrace, unwilling to let her go. "Thank you," he said quietly, not wanting to spook her by speaking too loudly.

Dr. Sheehan and Dr. Webber left them alone then, but Hunt did not let her go. His eyes filled with tears as he continued to rock her back and forth, rubbing her back slowly; gently. He couldn't bear to see her like this. She was in so much pain, and it killed him. He pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek, stifling a sob. "Shh," he held her tighter to him when she jerked in his arms. "Don't worry. I'm here." He had said the phrase so many times, but it never lost its meaning. Not to him. "I'm here, Cristina, and I'm never letting you go again. Do you hear me?" He pressed another kiss to her shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to take care of you, okay?" He rested his forehead on her shoulder. "I've got you."

She had relaxed her body to the point that he didn't fear she would try to attack him again, so he gently laid her back in the bed. He looked at her then, heartbroken at her disheveled form. Her stomach was distended. That was the dehydration, but her skin was taught against her body, allowing bones in her body to protrude that he had hoped he would never have to see. He cautiously brought a hand to her head, and stroked her hair soothingly. She was already so skinny. She couldn't afford not to eat.

She violently grabbed for his hand then, but he caught it, gently this time, rubbing it tenderly between his two warm palms. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's still me," he whispered, lowering it back to the bed. He ran his fingers down one side of her cheek, sighing.

He noticed a water-filled tub on the bedside table with a sponge floating on top. He reached for it, squeezing out the excess water. He found the control for her bed and used it to maneuver her to an upright position. He brought the sponge to her face, and she jerked violently, throwing her head back, her expression unchanging. He recoiled at the rejection. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay," he repeated, understandingly, making a second attempt to touch her. This time, she allowed him the privilege. He gently smeared away the dirt from her cheek, the intense need to take care of her prevalent. He moved to her forehead, careful not to disrupt the deep laceration near her hairline. She's exhausted, he thought as he brushed away the dirt under her sunken eyes. I'm going to have to sedate her. He hated the thought of it, but he knew it was a necessity.

After he finished with her face, he moved to her body. "You're going to feel a lot better when we're through," he said sprightly, trying to lift her spirits. He went to close the door and blinds in her room to give them some privacy, then untied her gown, sliding it down her body. He immediately saw why she could only use one hand to fight with. Her left shoulder blade was a deep blue. He pushed the hair back against his head. How could this happen? How could any of this happen? Mindful of her shoulder, he softly ran the sponge down her back several times, tediously cleaning the dirt away. "I bet you can't wait to go back to Seattle where it's familiar. I've already made the arrangements." He looked at her, hoping for a reaction. He didn't get one. "Once Arizona and Mark are stable enough, we're going to get you home." He hoped the sound of his voice was calming her. He moved to her front side, taking equal care to make sure he removed all of the dirt.

He had almost finished with her torso when she started shaking violently. He pulled back, alarmed. He looked at her monitor to ensure she wasn't having a seizure, but she was still stable. She still wore the same emotionless expression as he looked her over. It was then that the realization hit him. "You're cold." He had noticed that her skin was freezing, but she hadn't displayed any symptoms to suggest to him that she was uncomfortable until now. "Okay. Okay," he said, pulling a blanket from one of the shelves. He pulled the gown back over her shoulders and tied it in place. "You're okay," he said again, covering her shoulders with the soft fabric. He rubbed her shoulders slowly, trying to create friction, but she still shook.

He watched her eyes as he did so, but they revealed nothing, so he sighed then, removing his shoes. He thought she might revert to attack mode, but he chanced it anyway, supporting her back as he hoisted a leg on the bed and maneuvered around her. Leaning himself against the pillows with a leg on either side of her, he rested her against his chest. She didn't react, which was a good sign, at least. He rubbed her shoulders soothingly, whispering sweet words in her ear as he did so. Finally, the trembling ceased, and he rested his hands on her biceps.

He looked down at her hair, infested with grass, twigs, and knots. He moved his hands to her scalp then, removing each foreign object with care, simultaneously searching for any unidentified lacerations or infections. He was about halfway through with his endeavor when he noticed her breathing was shallow. "Cristina?" he muttered, craning his neck to look at her face. Her black, empty eyes were shielded by her eyelids as she breathed slowly. In and out. He sighed in relief, leaning back against the pillows. He resumed his task, careful not to wake her in the process. He found one small cut on the right side of her scalp, but it didn't concern him much.

When he finished, he cupped either side of her head, and pressed his lips to the crown, breathing her in. Despite the hell she had gone through, she still smelled like Cristina; she resembled Cristina. He just hoped one day she would be his Cristina again.