"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows." - William Shakespeare's, The Tempest.
Dr. Cristina Yang walked briskly down the hospital corridor heading for the nearest on-call room, head, back and wrist aching. 10 hours of charting (the silent, psuedo-punishment Bailey slapped on her, still upset at the Chiefs indifference to her "surgical crimes") and she had numerous battle scars of her own to show for it. Burke was still not talking to her.. not that she even expected him to, after she spent all day hounding his room, trying to find someone to gather the information about his tremors that he wouldn't give to her. She wanted to tell him about George's dad… althought no doubt he had probably already heard about it from some nurse, or maybe even George himself.
"I don't know how to exsist in a world where my dad doesn't."
"Yeah, that never really changes."
That wasn't exactly true. Cristina had found out how to exist in the world. Surgery. The scrubs, the gentle sterile scent of an OR, a scalpel grasped in her right hand… Since her own father had passed, her step father Saul stepped in to replace that empty spot but to no avail. Cristina had worked and worked to achieve a state in which she could find some sort of… solace. The work had eventually resulted in her B.A from Smith, Ph.D from Berkeley and MD from Stanford. And yet after years of hard, hard work she never felt truly liberated from the anchor until her first time standing in the OR… She had found her way to exist. But for some god-forsaken reason Cristina felt the need to let George know that he wasn't alone.
Cristina looked up from the hospital floor, just in time to narrowly dodge a linen cart pushed by a nurse aid. She stood at the side of the hallway for a few seconds, letting her brain catch up to her body, before resuming down the hallway and diving into the first on-call room.