I found the sentence "ENOUGH BONKING IN THE FUCKING CLOSET" saved in its own word document on my USB and was sufficiently intrigued as to my motives for saving it there to write this fic.
Hopeyoulikeit.
The janitor was sulking. The janitor often sulked, but today he was particularly sulky, and for a reason, which made it even more special.
He didn't like doctors. He didn't like them at all. Them and their shiny white coats, taking over places they didn't belong. Moodily, he stirred the Styrofoam cup of coffee he clutched in one gloved hand. It was his coffee break. Not officially, but he was taking one because he couldn't get to his favourite mop or his disinfectant. He was also considering going on strike, but he had a maudlin feeling that no-one would notice. He was also probably right.
This was just one more injustice heaped on him, of course. Clean this up, clean that up, there's vomit in Exam Room Two – what was he, their slave? Some guy with nothing better to do than to clean up other people's messes? Well, sure, that was technically his job description, but they could be nicer about it.
Possibly he could deal with being shuffled out of places, ordered about and given imperious looks. After all, the hospital was the domain of the doctors. He wouldn't exactly waltz into the MRI room and start – jabbing buttons, or whatever it was they did in there. But when they started encroaching into his territory, he got angry. And because anger accomplished very little, that turned into sulking, which accomplished less but made him feel better.
He shot the closet doors a withering look, pacing up and down in front of them like a caged lion. He tried rattling the door handle in a hopeless sort of way, found it still jammed shut. Probably with his mop, he seethed. Honestly. He had absolutely no interest in what doctors interested themselves with when they weren't saving lives, but they were in his closet, with his mop.
The noises within were dying down slightly, and he rolled his eyes, tapping one foot on the ground before hurriedly remembering to amble off a discreet distance down the corridor and scrub half-heartedly at a spot on the wall with his handkerchief. Two doctors sidled out of the closet – he fixed the girl with a particularly baleful stare as she made a rather furtive escape down the hall, before swinging around to give the blonde's retreating back dagger-eyes.
One day he'd bloody well say something about it to Cuddy, and that's be the end of it. Bastards. Bonking in his supply closet. No, no, no-one ever needs the janitor's closet. Except the janitor, but who cares about him, right?
Morosely, he began the task of re-organizing his closet, wishing rather irritably that they'd all just get a damned room. A room he wasn't in charge of cleaning.