So it's been WAY too long since I last updated, but life and school have been so busy that I haven't had any time to write. Good thing is that Christmas break is almost here, which means I'll have a lot of time to get caught up. There will probably be a couple more chapters and maybe an epilogue...we'll see.

Anyway, HUGE thanks to everyone who reviewed a very long time ago. Happy reading!

I wanted our first time to be special.

Owen's words rang out in the silence. She didn't know what to say. He wanted their—oh God. She felt like such a fool. She'd been so adamant that he was just some asshole, or too concerned about her condition, or not interested in her at all, when he'd really just wanted to make their first time together something special. She wasn't the hearts and flowers type, but she couldn't deny being touched—and humiliated—by his romantic tenderness.

She felt the need to say something in response to that, but had no idea what. Her pride was already wounded too much for an apology to be in the realm of the possible, and, if she was honest with herself, apologizing had never really been her thing to begin with. Apologizing meant that you had done something wrong, and Cristina Yang didn't acknowledge failure.

"I—" she began, realizing as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she had nothing with which to follow them up.

"You know," Owen said lightly, peeling off his coat to reveal lovely, toned biceps—the kind that inspired many naughty fantasies—peeping out from underneath the sleeves of his T-Shirt, "an apology would be a good start."

She could tell from the way he grinned up at her as he bent down to unlace his boots that this was something she was never going to be able to live down. Unfortunately for Owen, Cristina wasn't the type to give people what they wanted; in fact, depending on the person, she sometimes went out of her way to make sure they didn't get what they wanted. It made her seem like a bitch, but she was okay with that. It gave her the upper hand, not to mention it was incredibly satisfying to frustrate the other person.

"Yeah, but I don't do that thing where you say you're sorry and then I say I'm sorry and then we hug or something," she replied nonchalantly.

Owen raised his eyebrows. "So you're not going to apologize."

She shook her head. "And you won't either."

"What do I have to apologize for?" he asked, frowning. "I'm not the one who made wild assumptions about your behaviour."

"No, but you were the one who abandoned me in my hour of need," she said patiently. "Which, as far as regular people would be concerned, warrants an apology. I'm not too fussed, though," she added, feigning casual indifference. "Apologies have never really been my thing."

Owen nodded slowly, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Duly noted." He seemed surprised and might have even found this a little bizarre, though Cristina wasn't sure why. He must have figured out by now that she didn't waster her time with trivial things like apologies.

"I am kind of hungry, though," Cristina continued conversationally. "If you're looking for something to do, that is."

"And you couldn't feed yourself because...?"

Cristina shrugged. "I just thought that cereal wasn't a very nutiritous diet for someone who's recovering from pneumonia." As if to illustrate her point, she was overcome by a fit of coughing.

Owen sighed. "Are you trying to tell me you can't cook?"

She, Cristina Yang, cook? The thought was laughable. "Yup. Hopeless."

"Right." He set off towards the kitchen with determination. "Well, let's see what we have."

"Probably not much," Cristina said helpfully. "Meredith is the one who does the grocery shopping, and she can't cook either. Besides, it's not like we spend a lot of time out here."

"Then how, might I ask, have you two survived?" Owen asked, glancing despairingly at the practically empty cupboards. "I mean, there is nothing here, Cristina. Nothing."

Cristina rolled her eyes. He was being melodramatic. Really. It wasn't that bad. "Well, I told you, it's not like we spend a lot of time here." Honestly. He'd been living in this place for the last three days, surely he could see that it wasn't built to lodge people long-term.

"Still." Owen shook his head disbelievingly. "There's nothing here but a box of Cap'n Crunch and two cans of chicken soup."

"Further proof that Meredith is the one who does the grocery shopping. I hate Cap'n Crunch."

He shook his head again, this time in amusement. She really was ridiculous. There was no food in the trailer, and God only knew how long they'd be stuck here, and she didn't even seem to care. With an attitude like that, it was a miracle she was still alive. If cereal had never been invented, she probably would have starved by now. Which was his real concern: that they were going to run out of food. There were two cans of chicken soup, each which made four servings, and a couple boxes of cereal—some, he noted with relief, that weren't Cap'n Crunch. It was enough food for now, but he had no idea how long it was going to take for the ploughs to get out here. According to the reports he'd heard on the radio—he'd managed to get his truck unburied enough to turn it on—ploughing in the city was just beginning. Depending on how much work they had to do there, he and Cristina could be out of here tomorrow, or it could be another few days before they could get anywhere. He didn't even know if the ploughs would come all the way out to the trailer. Did they even know anybody lived out here?

Owen wasn't too worried about himself; food wasn't something that he needed much of. It was Cristina who he was concerned about; recovering from pneumonia required a specific diet that would help her regain the strength and nutrition she had lost, and she sure as hell wasn't going to get it from a box of cereal. He didn't even know if she could stomach that right now. He'd have to save all of the soup for her, just to be on the safe side. He could live with cereal for a few days.

There was a pot in the cupboard under the sink. Owen sent a silent prayer to God that Derek was a serious cook and therefore kept his trailer stocked with good-quality cook-wear. It made his job a hell of a lot easier, and after everything he had gone through these last couple of days, he was more than happy to take the easy way out. Cristina may have thought that she had it bad, but she wasn't the one who had to take care of herself in a trailer in the middle of nowhere with limited supplies during a blizzard.

He filled the pot with water from one of several large jugs Derek stored next to the fridge—another Godsend because the pipes appeared to be frozen—added the soup, and set it on the stove to boil. Knowing there wasn't much he could do until it was cooked, he settled down in the small armchair in the living room area to wait. Cristina had picked Ellis' journal again while he was busy in the kitchen, but he could tell from the pace at which she flipped the pages that she wasn't really paying any attention to what she was reading—if she was even reading at all.

This surprised him. While she had never really struck him as the reading type, he knew she wasn't the kind of girl to lose focus when she was immersed in something she thought was important—and given the way she had been roaming around the hospital with her nose buried in those little black books for the last month was a pretty good indication that she considered them important. This was the first time he hadn't seen her absolutely absorbed in what she was reading, and he was pretty sure it wasn't because the entries weren't interesting. Knowing this made him feel a little bit relieved; he obviously wasn't the only one who was feeling a little distracted by their proximity.

"So what's it about?" Owen tried to keep his voice casual, as if he were simply making small talk instead of not-so-subtly proving that she wasn't actually paying any attention to it.

Cristina's head snapped up like she'd been shocked, the journal falling from her hands. "What?"

"The journal." He gestured casually to the little black book threatening to slip off her lap. "You've had your nose stuck in it for weeks now, so it's got to be interesting."

"Oh." She looked away, twisting her fingers in her lap. He wasn't entirely sure what it was that was making her feel so uncomfortable. He knew that she might be distracted by his presence—not to be egotistical; God knew he was equally affected—but as fat as he knew, he wasn't doing anything that would make her feel that way. Cristina wasn't the type who felt uncomfortable in many situations. "Well, it's Ellis'."

"Ellis Grey?" Now Owen could understand the appeal. Ellis Grey was probably one of the greatest surgeons of their time. The entire medical community had mourned her death a couple of years ago. Her personal diary would definitely be considered a gold mine to Cristina Yang. The only thing that perplexed him slightly about all this was how she had gotten them. He would have thought they'd have been property of her family. "Where'd you get them from? I would have thought they'd be part of her estate."

"I stole them," she replied, face deadly serious.

"What?" he asked warily, not entirely sure she was telling the truth. She may have been a surgical junkie, but this was taking it a little far.

Cristina stared at him like he had just told her he was quitting his job to join the circus, effectively dissipating any awkwardness that may have existed earlier. "Well of course not. They're Meredith's."

There was a brief pause. Owen was still a little baffled. The journals were Meredith's?

"Come on," Cristina said in disbelief, seeing the confusion on his face. "Meredith Grey? Ellis Grey?" She paused dramatically, waiting for him to connect the dots. How could he not know this? Everyone knew Meredith and Ellis were related.

"You mean Meredith Grey is Ellis Grey's daughter?"

Cristina rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you didn't know that. Everyone knows that."

"Well obviously not everyone," Owen replied, trying to ignore the fact that Cristina had possibly just not so subtly insulted his intelligence. Just because he didn't know every single thing she did didn't make him stupid. How was he supposed to know Meredith was Ellis Grey's daughter? Grey was a fairly common last name, not to mention the fact that Ellis had never really struck him as the mothering type. He would have thought she'd have thought kids to be a burden.

Cristina waved her had impatiently, clearly indicating she thought this technicality to be highly insignificant. "Whatever. I suppose you can be forgiven because you're still sort of new. You weren't there when Ellis was admitted."

"Admitted? At Seattle Grace?"

"Yep." She smirked. "Twice."

Part of him wasn't surprised. From what he'd heard—and even witnessed to a certain extent—extraordinary occurrences were not uncommon. The staff—surgical in particular—had a reputation for treating each other with a little less than professionalism, a trap that he, too, had fallen into. Though, as his mother always used to say, you can't choose who you love. "That must have been hard on Meredith." He could only imagine what it would be like for him if his mother were admitted.

"Yeah, no kidding. Meredith, like, died. Couldn't wait until Ellis was released."

This surprised Owen. Meredith hadn't cared that her mother was in the hospital? His surprise must have shown on his face because Cristina continued, "Oh, don't look so shocked. There's a reason no one pegged Ellis Grey as the mothering type."

Oh. Well, this, he supposed, could be expected. He had, after all, been thinking the same thing moments before. He'd met Ellis once, and the brief encounter had not left him at all inclined to think of her as a mother. "Poor Meredith," he said softly, trying to envision the kind of childhood she must have had with a mother like Ellis Grey. It explained why she was so motivated to be a surgeon, though. "She must have had a rough time of it."

"Yeah, well, she wasn't the only one," Cristina snapped. She wasn't particularly interested in talking about Meredith right now, and especially not about how hard Meredith had had it. Cristina hadn't had it easy, either. "My mother spent my whole life trying to turn me into some kind of girly, boy-crazy airhead."

"What's wrong with being girly?" Owen asked with a grin as he got up to stir the soup, glad for a chance to lighten the mood. "You are a woman after all."

"I am a surgeon. I cut. I suture. I kick ass. Girly people don't do that. They're all pink, and frilly, and gushy." She shuddered at the thought of being condemned to such a lifestyle.

Owen chuckled, spying several flaws in that logic. "Stevens is like that, and she's a surgeon," he pointed out, hunting in the cupboard for a couple of bowls. "Damn good one, too."

Cristina frowned; not liking that Owen might be implying Izzie was as good as she was. Izzie was a good surgeon, but she wasn't that good. "We call her Barbie for a reason," she retorted.

Owen snorted, but quickly collected himself, not wanting to be rude. Izzie was a good surgeon, and a good person. It wasn't her fault she bore the uncanny resemblance to a Barbie doll. "Well, I will admit it's apt."

She smirked, sensing some hesitation on his part. "You're not against nicknaming people, are you? Because if you are, you've come to work at the wrong hospital." She'd really been hoping that he wouldn't be all goody and rule abiding, what with his being a badass army surgeon and all that. If he was, well, she'd seriously misjudged him.

Owen wasn't at all surprised that everyone had nicknames, nor would he be surprised to learn that Cristina and her group were the primary nicknamers. It sounded just like their kind of thing. Hell, it sounded just like the kind of thing the hospital staff would do. He didn't mind it for the most part—God knew there'd been plenty of nicknaming in the army—but it was important to know when to stop, especially working in a hospital—because he was certain Cristina's penchant for nicknaming didn't stop at her colleagues.

Realizing Cristina was looking at him with that scrutinizing look that meant she was waiting for an answer, he shrugged. He considered elaborating to say that he didn't mind so long as they knew when to call it quits, but realized that she'd probably consider it to be a lecture and would tune him out. Instead, he said, "Does everyone have a nickname?"

Cristina contemplated this, trying to keep the smile off her face. It wasn't right to say that everyone had a nickname—they didn't—but there were many of their colleagues who did. "Well, there's McDreamy and McSteamy—Shepherd and Sloan," she added, seeing the blank look on Owen's face, "Then there's Bambi, Evil Spawn, she-Shepherd, the Nazi, and, well, you know Stevens is Barbie."

Owen blinked, shocked. Cristina didn't understand what the big deal was. They were all perfectly fitting; in fact, she was surprised he couldn't figure out who was who right away. It really wasn't that difficult.

"So let me get this straight," he began, getting a couple of cowls out of the cupboard, "Shepherd and Sloan are McDreamy and McSteamy?"

Cristina nodded. "McDreamy is...well, you know, dreamy, what with the perfect hair and the charm and the leaning and stuff, and McSteamy...well, that should be self-explanatory." She'd thought McDreamy would have been obvious too.

Owen took a moment to digest this, ladling soup into bowls. "I suppose they're fitting," he said finally.

No kidding, she thought.

"And the others are..." he trailed off, setting the bowls on the table. Cristina took a moment to soak up the warmth wafting off the top of the bowl, breathing in the familiar scent of chicken soup before continuing. "Bambi is George because of the whole timid-nice-guy-big-eyes thing, Evil Spawn is Alex—again, obvious; he's such an ass—she-Shepherd is—was—Dr Montgomery Shepherd—"

"Shepherd? As in Derek Shepherd?"

Cristina nodded, having completely forgotten that Owen hadn't been witness to the whole 'McDreamy's married' debacle. "Yeah. She's his wife. Well, ex-wife now. Lives in L.A."

"Shepherd was married?" This was news to Owen. He'd assumed that Derek had always been with Meredith.

Again, Cristina nodded, shovelling a spoonful of soup into her mouth. "Oh yeah. Nobody knew about her until she showed up here all gorgeous and successful. She was the head of Neo-Natal for a while and used to wear these salmon pink scrubs...it was awful. She and Meredith hated each other."

Owen frowned. Meredith? Had she suffered from an unrequited crush on Shepherd that was shattered by the arrival of his wife, or perhaps..."They weren't together, were they?"

"Who, Meredith and McDreamy? Yeah. Until his wife showed up, that is." She chuckled to herself, remembering all too well the upheaval that had been caused by the arrival of Addison Montgomery. "They were having this little secret fling or relationship or whatever—which wasn't actually so secret because everyone knew about it—and then she-Shepherd just arrived, and things...well, they weren't good," she finished hastily, catching sight of the incredulous look on Owen's face.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Things like this weren't supposed to happen in normal hospitals. Attendings didn't have romantic relationships with interns period, let alone when they themselves were married. And to think he'd thought Shepherd was a good guy...

"So Grey and Shepherd were together and then his wife just showed up?" he said finally, endeavouring to understand how the hospital could still function when there was this much drama going on.

Cristina shrugged, toying idly with her spoon. Any excitement she had felt at sharing the gossip was gone, perhaps because of his obvious discomfort. "Basically. We called him McBastard for a while. But in his defence, she did cheat on him first. With McSteamy. That's why he came out here. So I suppose Meredith should thank her for sending McDreamy her way."

Owen didn't say anything for a minute. He wasn't sure what you were supposed to say to something like that. It wasn't necessarily that he was surprised: the degree of familiarity and, oftentimes, casual relationships between the surgical staff at Seattle Grace wasn't a secret, nor was the fact that Grey and Shepherd were together. What surprised him was simply how the hospital could continue to function under such circumstances: how had Grey and Shepherd been able to maintain any degree of professionalism after the arrival of his wife? Why hadn't the Chief intervened?

He shook his head incredulously, staring at his soup. The work atmosphere here was so alarmingly different from that in the army that it had been a little bit of a culture shock. He remembered feeling rather overwhelmed that first time Torres had gone on in the scrub room after a surgery, divulging way more personal information than he ever wanted to know about a colleague. He'd sworn to himself that he'd be professional, that being solely focused on work was the only way to keep his demons at bay, and now look at him. It hadn't even taken him two months to fall for a colleague—though, admittedly, he'd known they had chemistry when he'd started; that exam room kiss still lingered in his mind. And, despite the fact that he'd sworn he wouldn't, he wasn't at all averse to breaking his own promise. He needed a fresh perspective, something more effective than alcohol and insomnia to chase the demons away, and she was the perfect thing. She was professional enough that they would be able to fly under the gossip radar, and besides, it wasn't like he could stay away from her.

"Wow," he said finally, hoping to end the awkward silence. "I missed a lot didn't I?"

Cristina looked up from her soup, grinning. "Yeah. You've got a lot of catching up to do."

Her smile was infectious; Owen couldn't help but smile along with her. This was definitely something he could use to his advantage. "You're going to have to help me with that I guess."

"Oh really?" Her eyebrows arched skywards. "And what makes you think I'm going to be the one helping you?"

"Well, you wouldn't want me to suffer, would you? I didn't peg you as the type to be intentionally cruel," he said, feigning hurt.

She laughed, swallowing another mouthful of soup. "Well, there's a lot you need to know..."

"...And we aren't going anywhere any time soon," he finished, gesturing outside. "Or had you forgotten we're basically buried out there?"

Cristina's lips curled into a coy smile. "Well, I would have thought that given the amount of time you spent out there shovelling that we might be un-buried." She shrugged, stirring her soup. "Oh well. I guess you're not as strong as I thought."

Ouch. Owen couldn't deny the sting of her words, though at the same time, he was pleasantly surprised that she thought he was strong. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult my manliness there," he said, casually swallowing a spoonful of soup, "and attribute that comment to your lack of comprehension of the sheer amount of snow outside."

"Me? Insult your manliness? I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied sweetly, the perfect picture of innocence.

The desire to show her exactly how manly he was almost overpowering, but he resisted, focusing his attention on the bowl of soup in front of him and not Cristina's deliciously sexy smile. "I don't believe that for one second, but I'm willing to set aside my disbelief for argument's sake."

"Well good." Her tone was brisk, the typically business-like tone she adopted at work back again. "Because I certainly won't be bringing you up to speed otherwise. And I really don't know that you want it getting out that oh-so-professional Dr Hunt is actually a secret gossip fiend." That last comment sparked another devious grin again, making it even harder for Owen to control himself.

"Right," he said, trying very hard to think of the most disgusting surgery he'd ever performed, as so to keep his mind of the temptation across the table. "And you're so different from everyone else."

"Your secret's safe with me." She winked, setting down her spoon. "Let's get started."