TWELVE

After her shift at the hospital Cristina went home, now he decided he wanted to talk Cristina wasn't in the mood to talk. She had tried for almost three days to talk with Owen, but he put her off by being 'busy.' So now she wasn't in the mood for Owens apologies and sad blue eyes. She was angry with him. Having spent the last two and a half days, now three days, pondering alone, avoiding sleep, avoiding home. She knew it wasn't the best way to communicate and now he was probably waiting outside the hospital for her. Let him ponder alone she thought as she had stepped into her apartment.

Slamming her coat on the kitchen counter she reached her hand into her fridge without looking to pull out a beer. Nothing. She swung the fridge door wide. Nothing? It looked like a brand new appliance. No food, no juices, no nothing. There were three beers in the fridge the night before. She cursed Callie and Arizona and headed for her room. Her bed was a chaos of clothes, and stuff, and shit and more clothes. Three days without Owen cleaning up after her or badgering her to tidy up and the system had broken down already. Three days!

Peeling off her clothes, she headed for the shower. No shampoo. That cold facet that Callie promised she would tell the landlord about, that she promised would be fixed by tonight, was still not fixed. So Cristina's lovely warm shower was just a hot shower, no medium, no measure, just hot and annoying, and after the day she had, annoying was just, annoying.

Cristina slammed onto her bed, under her covers of clothes and tried to sleep, exhausted from working and not sleeping well, she just needed to rest. The crazy spread of strewn clothing was a sort of comfort to being alone, a ward against another unsettled night.

Again though, as had happened in the last few days. She had lain awake; her body a confusion of sleep and wake as she tried to think about what had triggered her nightmare. Her theories ran from Callie and her blow out at Joes, to Meredith's disappointment of her engagement, to Owen's disastrous attempts at dating Mer, to the commitment of marriage. Cristina turned over in the bed, disturbing settled clothing. These lines of logic fit her analytical thought processes, but didn't really account for the recent nightmare being her third nightmare since the choking incident.

She wasn't engaged to Owen four months ago, after the first nightmare, or three months ago, after the second, and Callie, true to her word hadn't said anything after she burst into her room during the first nightmare, she hadn't said anything coming home to the second, and during the third when she brought Arizona into the mix, with Owen present and watching. She still hadn't said anything. Cristina turned over in the bed again. She was not sleeping much tonight again was she?

Before leaving the hospital that night she had taken a deep, angry, reluctant, pissed off, pathetic, accepting breath, and walked into Dr Wyatt's office and made an A.S.A.P appointment with the receptionist, for a 'session'. God she hated that word. But she had no choice. Three nightmares. Three scary Owen is choking you to death nightmares later. It was time to deal with the ordeal. Yet again.

When tears watered her eyes, Cristina hated herself, and hated Owen, and hated Meredith's judgement and hated Callie's resentment and hated Arizona's pity gaze. She hated the situation, that a competent, professional, brilliant, promising woman had gotten herself into, by saying yes to a beautiful, flame headed, blue eyed, complex, brilliant man, she knew she loved on sight. Who made her scream internally with pleasure any time he touched or looked at her, or spoke to her. Who made her feel beautiful and brilliant and special. Saying yes to all of that after he showered in her shower fully clothed and talked about the brutality at war was probably the biggest mistake of her life.

Of course she understood Meredith. Of course she knew her friends fears and doubts. She had the same fears and doubts all the time. But she knew Owen was a good man, and she loved him and wanted to be with him and be there for him; and that utterly romantic, but true statement, was what she hated in pathetic females, but in her, being there for him meant she was willing to be less selfish, and move beyond the limitations that stalled her romances with Burke and other men.

She hated herself for being in this trap and she hated Owen for trapping her in this nightmare, and even though it wasn't really his fault. She hated. Well everyone.

It was only 12.30 am she justified. If she knew him, and she did. He would still be awake. Reading, having a drink, doing medical research on the computer. Doing a host of other ordinary things that would bore him after a few hours, but fill his brain with non war material, bring on tiredness and send him to sleep. She knew what time he got off and she knew he would still be awake. She was still awake, so why couldn't he be awake.

Cristina fought her way out of bed and dressed quickly, flinging on jeans, shirt, coat, bag, scarf. No bra, no panties, no socks. They were details. She left her hair out loose. It would help cover her ears in the cold night.

It took her an hour, but she walked all the way. Her wild hair blown about by the wind, cursing the rumbling affect that this man had had on her life and on her friendships. Thinking about Owen and his perfect apartment. Resenting the fact that if he wasn't filling her fridge with food, and picking up after her and scolding her and quietly organising her, she might always be left with an empty fridge and a hot shower. She resented that she needed to have him around. Wasn't her life just perfect before, Mr Perfect showed up with his trauma and his nightmares and his blue eyes and his love?

His apartment was masculine, comfortable, and homely. When they first met, it was empty, bare, boring. But as time had gone on and he had become more comfortable with the new him, Owen had decorated using rich colours and deep woods, and furnished and added things to walls and accessorized. Her word, not his. Her favourite things were his shower which was huge, his bed which was huge, his TV which was huge. He had a big screen TV. Such an un-Owen pretention. Oh, but it delivered delicious close ups when they watched surgeries, or when she watched surgeries. He was usually cleaning up or reading during that time. Her surgery watching obsession was not his obsession, and now they were 'together' he didn't indulge her as much by staying glued to her side as she salivated. His word, not hers.

Tonight though as her shoes clacked noisily against the lonely pavements, she hated his apartment, she hated the oversized luxury chairs, and the neat sturdy furniture, and the bold wooden bookcase that held fantastic and obscure medical books. She hated the stupid oversized shower with the over head facet, and the bench where she sat and shaved her legs or rubbed lotions into her feet. She hated his ridiculous kitchen with the pretentious island that he used to chop food on and make her delicious salads and other crap. She especially couldn't stand that his fridge was always stocked with everything she liked, and she only had to reach in without looking and grab something. And do not get her started on that so called luxury bed that was a queen but could be a king it was so wide they could roll on it confidently without fear of falling off. With his thread counts and his feather duvets and his woven leather headboard and synchronized bedding and all his neatness.

He claimed modesty. He screamed modesty. He wanted everyone to believe he was ordinary, and modest, and just a regular trauma surgeon and one of the guys like them. With his simple clothing and battered leather jackets. But he wasn't. He was a fraud; his home was an executive luxury apartment. His car was expensive. He could probably put Mark Sloan's' plush hotel room to shame. He would probably fit in very well with Saul and Helen in Beverly Hills. Yeah, they'd love him and not her. Of course everyone loved Owen Hunt.

She was going to say all of this to him tonight. On the way over to his apartment, things came to her mind that she decided she was going to say, as she marched through the emptying streets. She was going to share her feelings about Owen and his stupid apartment with him tonight.

He pulled open his front door and was taken aback. She looked frozen, but beautiful. Red cheeks, pale face, wild hair, lips purple and plump with cold. Angry.

"Did you walk?" It wasn't really a question. He looked after her as she barged past him. Owen closed his front door. "Do you know how late it is? Why did you walk here?" Of course she knew how late it was and he knew she knew, again it wasn't really a question. "I would've picked you up." He walked over to her, hands on his hips. "You do know how vulnerable you are walking about this late at night by yourself?" That was a question. But also a warning.

"I waited for you after work." He said. Owen's hand reached out to smooth Cristina s unruly hair. When she shrugged him off, he ignored her and continued. Then moving to her coat he removed her bag, which was sashed across one shoulder. Placing it on the floor, his hands moved to unbutton the long leather coat. She let him, glaring. He pulled it off and slung it over the small hallway bench.

"You're still upset."

She was. But the in warmth and the comfort of his home the fight she was going to give him, left, it could reappear in the morning when she wasn't so shattered, after her long day and her long walk and almost three days of no sleep. Cristina stifled a yawn. His face, his eyes, his half naked body, and his gentle handling added to her surrender.

"Come on." He pulled her to his room and once in there began to undress her, she let him. His face pulled in surprise when he pulled off her top and was met with bare skin. His eyes focussed on her breasts. Pulling at her waistband he opened her jeans and pushed them down her hips. Again his face pulled surprised she had no underwear on. He was tempted to touch her but he didn't.

"In a hurry?" Was all he said.

He rubbed at her arms and along her shoulders and on her cheeks and smoothed her hair and smoothed her shoulders and smoothed along her arms. As she kicked herself out of her shoes and out of her jeans he said. "I'll get you something hot to drink." Owen pulled back the bed covers on his bed and Cristina crawled into his large bed and assumed the foetal position, mainly to feel warmth. Owen covered her over.

As he suspected, Cristina was fast asleep when he got back. Switching off the light, but leaving the door open, Owen went back o the living room and to the book he was reading.