Owen had lost his way again. The flashbacks returned, and he was confused and his words started to fail him. The nightmares came back and he became afraid to sleep.
When he saw that she was afraid, Owen took action. He tried to keep his attention on Cristina in the present, at the same time that he was sorting out all of the triggers that kept sending him back to the horrific visions of the past. It was, simply, impossible. He hated that he couldn't do it all, that he was lost and confused, bouncing between where he should be and where he had once been. He lost sight of the man living in the after, so entrenched was he in the visions of the past.
As he watched Cristina walk away from him, removing herself from his life, he thought that things could not get any worse. He had a whole new understanding of what it meant to be lost and helpless. Frustrated and angry with himself, he wondered if he would ever know clarity again.
Clarity came sooner than he thought. A few hours later, he saw a man holding a gun to Cristina's head. Everything became crystal clear. Nothing clouded his vision. He knew what he needed to do, and he knew that he could do it. He reached deep within himself, and found the strength to wade into the situation.
"You're not going to do the traditional carry me over the threshold thing, are you?" Cristina smirks as Owen presses her against the door to his apartment, his hands roaming over her curves.
"Oh yes I am," he assures her. "Just like I did the night that we met."
"Don't even think about stabbing me with an icicle," she teases, as his lips find her luscious neck.
He whispers into her ear, "I'm going to impale you, but not with an icicle."
"That is so corny!" Cristina laughs.
Owen could see that the gunman was agitated, that it was possible that he could be startled into pulling the trigger. He walked in, trying to get the gunman to turn away from Cristina without killing her. He was not going to stand still and watch her die. He had to protect his Cristina.
"Fantastic dress, by the way," Owen tells Cristina, as he helps her slip it off. "Now I know why you chose that tie for me."
"You look hot in that suit," she purrs. "Now let me look at you without it."
The shooter had his sights set on killing Derek. Meredith was distraught, begging him to kill her instead. And Cristina was barely holding it together. So Owen took action and made his move. His shoulder burned as the world went black.
She smells of honey and vanilla as they tumble onto the bed. His hands go to her breasts, as their mouths find each other again.
As soon as possible, he raced back to the OR. Owen obediently sat off to the side and watched Cristina operate. The residents thought he was there to supervise as the sole attending surgeon. His eyes never left her.
The ring on his hand catches the light as he strokes her limbs. He smiles.
Cristina found him at the hospital, just as he was done speaking with the police. She pulled him aside and informed him that he was to not speak about Meredith's miscarriage. Owen didn't quite see the reasoning behind it, but he agreed to honour her request.
He looked at Cristina, unsure of his status in her life.
She looked at him. "You can't drive with your arm in a sling."
"I know," he said. "Can I sleep on your couch?"
"You can sleep in my bed," she said softly.
Cristina makes low, guttural sounds, as his hands and mouth make her arch beneath him.
Dr Wyatt had reminded him over and over again, that not talking fed his PTSD. So he talked. He talked with her in their sessions, he talked with the people around him, he briefly talked with Perkins, and he was cleared for surgery.
Owen eases into her, closing his eyes as he is overcome by a feeling of ecstasy.
Cristina said she was okay, but she wasn't. He could see that, plainly. She was jumpy and distracted and lost. He became more and more grounded in the present, as she started to spiral out of control.
They move in sync, her hips matching his thrusts. She bites his shoulder.
The ring fell onto the floor when he was helping his mother move the dresser.
"My mother's ring!" She exclaimed, picking it up. "It was in the dresser!"
She turned and smiled at Owen. "Remember how we couldn't find it when you wanted to propose to Beth?"
"It seems like fate that we found it now," she smiled, placing the ring in his hand.
The headboard bangs against the wall, as he guides her into another climax, thinking that she has never looked more beautiful.
Cristina was not well. Even a small problem like him being late was enough to send her into a panic. He knew his job. He had to be there for her, he had to reassure her that he would always be there.
It was the most natural thing to do. To pull the ring out as a symbol of his commitment to her, and ask her to let him stay in her life.
She reached for the ring as a drowning person reaches for a lifeline.
He swallows hard as he can't hold back any more, releasing into her, as she wraps her sweaty limbs around him, and keeps him close to her.
Eyebrows were raised at the timing, but he didn't care. Owen walked the halls with a new confidence, happily talking with everyone that he encountered. He could see that he was where he needed to be. He was the man she needed him to be.
She turns on her side and faces him. Her hand reaches out to stroke his face. "You stayed," she whispers.
"I'm never leaving," he tells her.
He knew she was broken. It was his job to hold her together while she fought through the trauma. As she had done for him.
He kisses the faint scar on her stomach, before his mouth travels upward. She moans his name as he swirls his tongue around her right nipple.
It had been her habit to rehash every surgery with him, relishing the minute details. Now she talked about caterers and flowers and song choices, when her eyes weren't trained on a bridal magazine. He handed over his credit card and told her to do as she pleased.
Owen grunts, his face buried in the darkness of her hair, as he empties himself into her again, awash in emotion. She is his and he is hers.
Today was the day. He got dressed in Alex's bedroom at Meredith's house. He looked in the mirror to straighten his tie, and smiled to see a happy man reflected back.
Cristina lays flat on her back and stares at the ceiling, while his fingers run through her hair.
"I'm not a simple girl," she says.
Owen kisses her forehead. "You certainly aren't."
"What does that mean to you?"
"It means that you are mysterious and complicated and full of surprises." He pulls her closer. "And never, ever, boring."
"And you like that in a woman?"
"I love that in you." He caresses her face. "I look forward to discovering a part of you each and every day for the rest of our lives."
She snorts. "You're getting mushy."
"I'll tell you a secret," he whispers. "You make me mushy."
Cristina rolls her eyes and smiles softly, before turning and burrowing her head against his chest. "A big strong man like you?"
Owen considers her words. "I am strong, I am as strong as you need me to be. That doesn't mean that there aren't times when all I want to do is – what we're doing now. Lying in bed together. Mushy stuff."
"So you're happy?"
"I am very happy. Thanks to you."
His first choice for best man was in jail, and his second choice was drunk and distracted, but none of that really mattered. Owen was ready to commit himself body and soul to the woman he loved, that was the important part. He looked at the ring and waited for her to come to him.
Cristina hasn't slept well since the shootings, but tonight, she is in a deep slumber. She lies curled against him, one hand against his chest, as if even asleep, she needs the comfort of his presence. Owen watches her sleep for a while, so fragile and beautiful and complex, before his eyes close and he drifts towards pleasant dreams.