Small drabble that takes place a few months after 9x02. Arizona has got a prosthetic and Cristina has returned to Seattle Grace. But they're not quite the same people. Living under the circumstances and consequences of their decisions, they learn from each other.

I own nothing from Grey's Anatomy.

More of an insight to thoughts I have on their respective situations. It's badly written, hence a drabble.

It hurts to fight it. It should for normal people. It's the relatively "normal" thing to do. But it's this notion of normalcy that I detest the most.

I'm forced to be here. Now that I've come here, I already hate the crap out of it.

The Psych ward. Because clearly, I'm crazy. Yes, I still dream about it. I dream about those cold nights where I couldn't see past the array of trees reflecting in the moonlight. I could see Mer sleeping soundly, clutching to Derek as if he were going to die. But he wasn't dying. Mark was. Constantly, constantly. So I rush over to him - and I bring him back to life. Because that's my job. Though he wants to die. He wants to die so badly. But I won't let him, Arizona won't let him, we won't let him. So I let him live again.

And then Arizona. With her heaving and coughing. With her fear and pain, she clutches Mark's hair. The bugs, they're invading. So I scrape the bugs off to reassure her. "Your leg will be fine," I lie. I lie and I lie. "Mark won't die," I lie.

And then when they're all asleep, I can hear the howling. The rupturing and fighting over Lexie Grey. I wonder what part they were fighting over. Maybe her face first? Or her arm? Her chest? Lexie, god, Lexie.

I don't sleep much, because I dream of it. I dream of the bugs in Arizona's bleeding leg, and the heaving of Mark's chest as I revive him. I dream of the scavengers decapitating my best friend's little sister, because that's all I remember. I remember the bitter crying of Meredith, the muffled yells of Derek as Mer penetrates his arm with a safety pin. God, I remember it all.

I remember him too.

I remember his breath against my lips, his strong arms wrapped around me as he tries to calm me down.

"She doesn't belong in psych!" he yelled.

I remember the crying as he told me of the other woman.

I remember the wounds that I can't heal. I remember the people that have died.

But now I'm here. I came back.

I came back to this cursed city, this hospital, where I see apparitions of people long gone. Where I see George O'Malley at every bus stop I drive by, where I see Lexie Grey yelling at stupid interns. Where I see Mark Sloan lunching in the cafeteria next to a lonely Callie Torres.

I see them all.

I scoff at the nurse when I give her my name. Counseling. Ugh.

I stroll off.

"We'll be with you momentarily, Ms Yang. Please wait over there," the nurse says to me.

Yeah, I'm sure.

They're lenient with doctors who are patients. They don't think we'll flip out and knock someone over.

When little Grey went crazy, she knocked over interns all the time.

I chuckle. I miss when she was my intern. God, she was an annoying kid.

I stroll down the hall, damn, I have to get away. I'm not crazy and I don't need counseling. Everyone dreams about events that have ruined their lives. Everyone.

I open a seemingly empty room to escape. I can find solace here. I just need quiet.

Two beds.

Oh, but it's not empty.

The woman on the bed nearest to the window lifts her head momentarily, taking me in.

"Yang?" she asks.
"Robbins," I nod, shutting the door.

I walk over to the empty bed next to her, laying down on it.

"Counseling?" she asks me.
"Yeah," I tell her.

She chuckles.

I glance at her pants. Loose, gray sweat pants. Hiding the hunk of metal that's supposed to be her leg.

"You know, gray doesn't suit you," I tell her.
"Oh?" she asks, turning her head in my direction.

Her overly blue eyes are dead. Angry, dead - full of blame, I guess. But lifeless. Unmotivated.

When I came back, she was dead. Owen told me that she got a prosthetic. But I knew she was dead. When I saw Torres again, she looked dead too.

Maybe that crash killed us all.

She smirks, and then turns her head again to stare at the ceiling.

"So why are you getting counseling?" I ask her. I don't know why I'm asking her, but I do anyway.
"They don't think I'm me," she tells me.
"But I'm me. And they say I can't work like this," she says.

But she walks fine. So I've heard. Torres doesn't talk about her. No one talks about her.

Because she died.
And we don't talk about the dead.

"You don't seem like Arizona Robbins," I tell her.
"You don't seem like Cristina Yang," she retaliates.
"My personality didn't exactly take a 180," I shoot back.
"You're not happy and neither am I. That's why we're here, Yang. That's why they think we need this.." she grumbles.

Happy? Why should I be?

"Why shouldn't you be? Callie is killing herself over you," I tell her.
"Callie is not my life," she says in return.
"She loves you!" I surprisingly find myself yelling.

I don't know why.

"I know," she mumbles.

Then why?

"..I don't think you do," I tell her.
"I do. I do, but Callie is not my life. I can't just sit around and expect her to fix me," she says.

She sits up and looks at me.

"Do you know who I am? I'm a Pediatric surgeon. One of the damn best. I won a grant, a grant - to Africa! To save children's lives in Africa! I was crazy about my career, absolutely crazy. So I fell in love with Callie, but I was someone before that. I was one of the damn best Peds surgeons in the country!" she yells.

The best..

"But now I'm nothing! I can't work!"
"Don't you get that? Don't you thrive on being a surgeon? Isn't that your life? Isn't that what you breathe?" she asks me.

She pauses, closing her eyes.

"We're alike, Yang."

No.

"No, we're not," I tell her.

Because I'm not broken.

Because I'm still a damn surgeon.

"Callie loves you, she'll love you no matter what you become-" I tell her.
"I know that. But it's not enough for me. Not for me. You of all people should know that feeling!" she exclaims.

What the hell does she know about me?

I dart up.

"How the hell should I know that? We're nothing alike!" I yell, surprisingly enraged.
"Because even when you quit being a surgeon, Hunt loved you. Hunt loves the hell out of you. But it wasn't enough. You had to come back!" she yells.

Oh.

I remember.
The excitement. The feeling of delving into a heart - of saving a life. The blood, the veins - like a formula, an equation. It was my fix.

And he still stayed. Even when I didn't.

He still called out to me. He's still there.

She's right.

"Callie's there you know," I mumble.
"I know," she says, sitting back down on her bed.
"And you're still a damn good surgeon," I tell her now, looking directly into those blue eyes.

They don't seem so dead anymore.

And for the first time in months, I see her smile.

"You think so?" she asks.
"You don't need counseling to prove that you're something. You don't need a damn counselor to save a life," I grumble.

I didn't. A counselor couldn't even save my marriage.

She sits there, pondering for a while.

Then she tells me.

"We should counsel each other!" she exclaims.

I have to laugh. I couldn't stand all those rainbows and crap.

But it's true. Maybe we are the same.

"Why not? Let's get the hell out of here," I suggest.
"I'm down with that!" she exclaims, getting up.

Maybe what we all need is a little reassurance. It comes from indirect sources sometimes, but that's how we establish our own normalcy. Because maybe we're all the same.