By GreyEyesGlaringAtShonda (formerly known as GreyEyedGirl)
Summary: Cristina and Burke post season 3, sans some tragic ending.
A/N: Okay, this is after season 3, and yes, the bad stuff did happen—but no worries! This is how the bad stuff gets fixed. Comprenden? Yes, it starts off sad, but if you survived McFloppy (not to be confused with McFloppyHAIR), you should be able to get through the beginning (it's worth it). BangFluff:D
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How can you just leave me standing?
Alone in a
world that's so cold? (So cold)
Maybe I'm just too demanding
Maybe
I'm just like my father too bold
Maybe you're just like my
mother
She's never satisfied (She's never satisfied)
Why do we
scream at each other
This is what it sounds like
When doves
cry
--When Doves Cry, Prince
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Her mother used to buy her Judy dolls, and she dissected them. She shaved their heads, stealing needles from her nanny's sewing kit and shoving them into the ugly holes that were left behind, murmuring mechanic drilling noises like the little boys from her playgroups did as they toyed with their model airplanes and trucks.
She cut off their arms, sliced through their chests, insistently foreshadowing the Science Fair-winning dissections from eighth grade on up.
Over two decades later, she stood motionlessly outside the bedroom her and Burke once shared, unable to crawl into or even look towards their bed, her carefully-shaped eyebrows removed as easily as the dolls' wardrobe changes, her circulation still recovering from the dress-induced cut-off, her body cavity exposed dangerously to the world. She could hear her thunderous heartbeat, echoing the whirring mutter of her fantasy, the rhythmic applause of the baking-soda-and-vinegar-flooded gym.
She'd fallen asleep in an on-call room the night before. She felt ambiguous as to whether it was her own sad stab at improvement, or another pathetic attempt to show Bailey her game hadn't suffered, but at least she hadn't woken up sprawled across the kitchen floor, or gotten stuck dodging some flippant teenager's interrogation halfway through sutures about her vodka-laced scent from the previous night.
Cristina made her way into the kitchen, ignoring the sound of her cell going off as she popped off the lid to the bottle. It was Meredith. She'd set some tacky ringtone for her the day after the wedding to let her know when she could ignore it.
She brought her hand to her mouth to swallow the pills, utilizing every bit of strength she had left to keep from dry heaving from the repugnant taste.
The ringtone stopped, only to start up again immediately.
"I'm sleeping, Mer," she groaned into the phone, her forced casually-cranky-slash-tired voice perfected from the lasting routine.
"Just checking on you," came the tentative response, prompting Cristina to up her decided dosage.
"'Night."
She dropped her phone onto the counter, heaving her body against it and resting her weight upon her elbows.
She couldn't do this, she couldn't touch anything he'd touched, she couldn't disturb the food he'd left so organized inside the fridge and within the cupboards; she couldn't collapse onto the sofa he'd held her on or breathe the smell of him resonating throughout the apartment.
It'd been almost three weeks, and it was starting to look like he really wasn't coming back.
It wasn't as if she hadn't tried; Cristina Yang was nothing, if not determined.
He'd left no note, no phone number, no information with Chief Webber except for his letter of resignation and a wealth of apologies. This halted her only for a moment, she was, after all, Cristina.
His mother had sounded harried on the phone, and told her quietly she couldn't help her. She'd spoken to his father the other six times, who was almost as articulate over the phone as he was in person. His voice was sad, and it left Cristina even less desiring to punch in the unfamiliar digits.
She didn't know what to do with herself. She couldn't face a life where she'd never see him again, she couldn't even face a month. Her breath stopped when she thought about him moving on, meeting someone else, giving her all the things she'd planned out for them. She didn't know how to do this, and she didn't want to.
She was supposed to be Cristina Burke right now, herself, but with adjustments…upgrades. She wasn't that person anymore, that hardcore vessel of perfection, but so what?
"I wouldn't want to be. I want to be better than that. I'd like to believe I've grown."
She heard the words filter throughout the room, but couldn't absorb them. She could feel the world crashing down around her, crushing her, but didn't know how to stop it. She longed for his presence, even the look of betrayal in his eyes as he slammed the door in her face, or the sound of their shouts striking her in the midst of one of their passionate fights, but all she had was the shadow of where their relationship had illuminated, covering her in darkness. She felt herself settle onto the stool and her head rest in her arms, but it was a dim awareness, as she let her consciousness float away, bracing herself for another day without Preston Burke, segueing into the successive half-life.
She was supposed to be sticking, but when there was nothing to stick to, the only thing she could do was slip off the edge.