TRIAGE | grey's anatomy (ON HOLD INDEFINITELY)

016: "ever since new york"

THE DAY SHE WAS THREATENED WITH AN INTERVENTION, CLEMENTINE'S FAVORITE PARKING SPOT WAS TAKEN-- THE ICING ON A CAKE THAT WAS LOPSIDED AND RED VELVET.  Clementine hated red velvet flavoring with a burning passion, mostly because it was a truly-chocolate fraud with red food coloring. As such, this was an appropriate indication of her past week. It wasn't the world's best parking spot, a forgotten and faded rectangle tucked into a corner of the staff parking lot, underneath an alder tree that shedded profusely during the fall and coated her car in a damp layer of red leaves. But it was always open and waiting for her invitingly, and it was the closest distance to the bodega in the courtyard across the way-- which had infinitely better coffee than inside the hospital and gave healthcare worker discounts. And her spot was taken.

Clem barely glanced at the car parked oh-so-casually in her spot, only saw a flash of expensive-looking silver, and sped towards the front to her friends, pulling up next to Meredith's station wagon. It was a pain in the ass and inconvenient and downright rude, but she was late. As she grabbed her bag and dashed out of her car, Clem grumbled bitterly to herself about how this was what she deserved, daring to leave the hospital for clean underwear. This was a sign.

She took the stairs three at a time, forgoing any interaction with anyone in the elevator, and changed back into her scrubs and a freshly-laundered darker blue henley before sprinting to a patient's room.

Cristina looked up from her breakfast sandwich. "Where've you been?"

Clementine squirmed under the inquisitorial stare of Alex, Meredith, and George, and held up a basket of death muffins weakly before slumping her body into the chair next to Really Old Guy. Lately, she liked him the most out of anyone. ROG over there wasn't poking her undereye bags, or asking why her legs were shaking, or telling her to go home because she apparently wasn't allowed to volunteer her services after she'd hit her 80-hour time limit in four days. ROG wasn't trying to police how many coffees she had a day, or force-feed veggie pizza down her throat. ROG just sat nicely in his bed and shut the hell up.

"What?" Clem snapped, oddly irate by the stagnant air, but she twinged with guilt when George flinched. She felt like a hormonal teenager once more, where everything she said came out meaner than she had intended, and the whole world was cornering her with pitchforks.

"Are you going to eat anything?" Meredith asked slowly, cautiously, barely looking up from the latest medical review magazine sat in her lap.

Clem's response was automatic and flat, as she peered intensely at her split ends. "I already did."

"Hmm," was all Meredith said for a while. Then she looked up and smiled almost woefully. "You're a terrible liar."

Oh, the irony. Clementine scoffed and stood abruptly, not bothering to say goodbye. She had been lying, but she'd put the same amount of effort into the sentence as her hair recently-- none. She instead set her intentions on snagging the best cases from the nurses station before rounds, or even perfecting her butterfly stitch technique in the Pit. But as she walked down the hall, she was caught suddenly by a hand gripping her arm.

Alex dragged her to the side and more-or-less tossed her into a supply closet, all while still chewing on a bagel. "Okay, fine, let's chat."

"About what?" she hissed. As Clementine yanked her hand from Alex's loose grip, she felt vaguely like a scorned child.

"Meredith and Cristina are walking on egg shells around you because they think you need time, but I'm gonna tell it to you straight." As if that was a surprise, Clementine thought acidly, but nodded her head impatiently, waiting for him to continue. "You have been a massive bitch this whole week for no goddamn reason, it seems. And it's creeping me out."