Cristina Yang

Cristina had been hiding in her apartment again -- it was what she did these days -- and planned to sleep way in were it not for her phone ringing incessantly in the morning.

"What."

( It was her person )

She was home.

[NFI. And that's it, Cristina's last post! She was terribly fun when I had the brain for her, but it's time she get to do what she actually wants to. Cheers, all!]

So far, Cristina's prediction to Parker in the clinic was spot on. She'd woken up that morning hungover in a dry bathtub. As nice as day-drinking alone in the tub for third day in a row sounded, she caught a whiff of herself and decided it was time to use the shower for its actual purpose and maybe let her body manufacture some vitamin D today. Just so long as she got as far from the damn woods as she could.

Turned out she could leave the island! In order to go to one of the other impossible islands nearby.

So here she was, wandering slowly through an Ikea, drinking spiked lingonberry juice from a paper cup and admiring the carefully put together tiny display apartments.

She missed having an apartment. Some place where she could paint the walls blood red and fill with her own furniture. Sure, she'd miss the maid service at the hotel, but those people had judgey eyes anyway.

And hey, now she was day-drinking alone in someone else's bathroom! That was called progress.

[open, should anyone else be visiting the land of meatballs and inexpensive flatpacked furniture!]

Cristina was in bed. She had every intention of staying in bed for the foreseeable future. What reason was there to get out of bed, after all? She wasn't printing human hearts. She wasn't even a surgeon anymore. She was barely a doctor. She was somehow four years in the future and no matter what Jono said, losing four years was not going to be okay. She'd been kidnapped by a magical island of weirdos, the laws of science no longer meant anything, and everyone she tried to talk to about it just blew that off like it was no big deal.

Also, she was out of tequila and very, very hung over.

So she was going to stay in bed. Damn the bedsores. And the slow atrophy of her muscles. If life was even a little fair, she'd go full-on catatonic like after the plane crash, so she wouldn't have to think about how very unfair life really was. Nothing could get her out of this bed.

Except for her cellphone ringing. With Meredith's number.

( This is probably going to get a bit long )

Right, so Cristina was not getting out of bed. Until her conversation with Meredith -- who was apparently staying home sick today to day-drink -- finally petered out.

So maybe sometime by midweek, then.

[For establishy purposes unless someone can come up with a reason to come visit Cristina in her hotel room. OOC is also welcome. Meredith's side of the conversation is based on details from the first three episodes of Grey's Anatomy season 11. God, but I love my weird-ass show.]

"You've reached Dr. Cristina Yang. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Or whatever weird local equivalent this place has. If this isn't an emergency -- what the hell are you even calling for? Who uses voicemail anymore? Text me like a normal person."

*beep*