A/N: This is the last of the final three chapters of this story, which are all going live at the same time. If you have been waiting for the finale, please go back and begin at Chapter 17, not here.

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Once in the kitchen, they had immediately devoured the baguette and opened a bottle of wine, which helped tide them over until the chicken was ready. They had thrown together a salad and boiled some pasta in the interim. A half hour later they were back in bed, a pillar candle stolen from the kitchen table casting a soft glow over the room, and their plates in their laps. The nicely set tableau in the other room had been abandoned in favor of something much more intimate and cozy. Cristina had put on a robe, and Owen was back in his grey boxers. They conversed easily, almost as if they were sitting on a park bench or at a restaurant, and not on her bed in the aftermath of one extremely hot session of lovemaking. Not to compare, but Burke had been fully capable of the elaborate gesture – food, wine, candlelight – but the sterility of those encounters contrasted sharply with the warmth and casual nature of this interlude. What could be better than eating dinner in bed with a hot guy you've just made passionate love with? And a hot guy who could cook, too… ? Cristina couldn't think of much. Well, maybe a triple bypass or a piggyback heart transplant, but beyond that, she came up empty.

"Y'know, you really surprised me with the whole candlelight and dinner thing…" she observed.

"What… ? Did you think bowling and cemeteries were the extent of my repertoire?" he asked, the humor only vaguely masking a genuine concern.

"I guess I had no way of knowing just WHAT you were capable of…"

"And you think you know now?"

"I've got some idea…"

Owen caught her eye, and his look was deadly serious with an undertone of steaming hot, "You think you do, but trust me, you don't… "

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh." He took her plate from her and set it on the night table.

"Wait! What about dessert? Isn't there dessert?"

"Well, I don't know what you're having, Dr. Yang…" he pushed her back down on the bed and kissed her persuasively, "but I'm having you."

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Hours later, when they had both discovered a few more tantalizing details about what the other was capable of, they lay curled in each others' arms and drifted toward sleep. Cristina was out within minutes, but Owen had too many things going through his mind to nod off right away. Anders' words came back to him: If you have a big hole... start to fill it with the things and people that make you happy... He was sated, and very excited by the distinct possibility that he would probably never get enough of this woman. Images floated past his mind's eye... of their evening, their lovemaking, the way he had purposely gotten under her skin during the day… and in that kaleidoscope of imagery and sensation that precedes sleep, they were interspersed with other images from other lives, other days. There was the occasional momentary flash from the battlefield, and though this raised his heart rate for a moment, he was able to ground himself with the feeling of Cristina in his arms and let it pass. Faces of the friends he had lost, their voices, drifted by him too, and as they did so he realized that although there was sadness, they had released their hold on his present day life and were moving into the sacred container of memory. For the first time in months, he was firmly rooted in the now and could allow these images to touch him, then let them go.

Owen did not know what the future would hold for him and Cristina. If he had learned anything in the past six months, it was that there were no guarantees for anyone, anywhere. All he could do was give it his best shot, and that he vowed to do.

As he drifted closer and closer to sleep, he saw himself back at the cemetery, sitting on the bench, head bowed, with the elderly vet who had so graciously helped him in his time of most desperate need. He saw Cristina standing under a nearby tree, holding a space for him. And in this near-dream state, he saw tens if not hundreds of other soldiers, substantial and yet insubstantial at the same time, standing all around him. Some had familiar faces but most did not, and he knew without knowing how he knew that they were all there for him. Those nearby laid hands on Owen's shoulders in support, while the others simply surrounded him in silence and solidarity. He could feel their touch and their energy, and he sighed as he sank even deeper into relaxation. He was conscious of an overwhelming peace, allowing a little more of the ever-present grief to flow through him and sink down into the earth.

No, there were no guarantees... but maybe he was finally in a place to make some promises.

He pulled Cristina closer, and entwined his fingers with hers.

And he slept.

THE END

A/N: I embarked on this story thinking it would be a fun way to spend the GA hiatus, but also feeling very connected to the dynamics of this relationship and to Owen's story in particular. Little did I know how much I would be affected by it once I began. As the plot developed and the characters kept telling me what they wanted, I felt continual pressure from Owen to make sure that the war vets got their due. I hope I've accomplished that, and that you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

My wish for GA is that the writers show the character of Owen Hunt the respect he deserves, and that they not fall into the repeated pitfalls of this series by doing something to trivialize him or – worse – make him ridiculous. I'll be holding my breath to see what they do with his and Cristina's love story, and hoping against hope that whoever has been writing them up to now will continue to keep things real - and hot!

Thanks so much to all of you who have taken the time to read, write reviews, email me privately, and encourage me in this work. I appreciate it more than I can say, and I welcome your reactions to the conclusion of this - my first - fanfic.

Take care.