The Seattle Grace Hospital Prom was a fever dream of chiffon, awkward slow-dancing, and the lingering scent of formaldehyde. For the interns, it was a funeral masquerading as a party; for Christopher, it was a theatrical set he knew by heart.
He stood at the entrance of the ballroom, adjusting the cuffs of his Tom Ford tuxedo. Beside him, Jack looked like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ, his presence a stark, polished contrast to the frayed nerves of the surgical staff.
"You're shaking," Jack whispered, his hand finding the small of Christopher's back.
"I'm anticipating the meltdown," Christopher replied, his sarcasm a thin veil for the adrenaline spiking in his chest. "In about twenty minutes, Meredith Grey is going to lose her Prom Queen composure, and Derek Shepherd is going to forget he has a wife in a different wing."
"And us?" Jack asked, his blue eyes searching Christopher's. "Walking in together... it's a closing statement, Christopher. There's no going back to 'The Consultant' after this."
Christopher took a breath, looking at the double doors. He was twenty-one. He was tired of being a ghost in a script. "Let them look. I'm the best surgeon in this building; what are they going to do? Fire me for having impeccable taste?"
They walked in.
The room didn't just go quiet; it decelerated. Cristina Yang, mid-argument with Preston Burke, stopped with her mouth half-open. Izzie Stevens, looking like a shattered prom doll, stared from the corner.
"Is that... a man?" George O'Malley whispered, his voice carrying in the sudden vacuum.
"It's a litigator, George. Try to keep up," Christopher drawled as they glided toward the bar.
He felt the heat of Richard Webber's gaze from the far side of the room. The Chief looked stunned, then deeply, clinically curious. Christopher didn't look away. He raised his glass of bourbon in a silent, mocking toast.
"You really enjoy the dramatic irony, don't you?" Jack murmured, leaning down to catch Christopher's ear.
"It's the only thing that keeps the nihilism at bay, Jack," Christopher replied.
He scanned the room. There they were—Meredith and Derek, locked in a magnetic gaze near the exit. Christopher knew exactly where they were going. He knew the exam room was waiting. He knew Addison would find them.
But for once, he didn't care. He turned toward Jack, the neon lights of the hospital ballroom reflecting in his eyes.
"Dance with me," Christopher said.
"In front of your boss?"
"Especially in front of my boss."
As they moved to the center of the floor, the Snow Patrol track began to swell. Christopher closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Jack's shoulder. He was the triple-board prodigy. He was the transmigrator. But in this moment, he was just a guy at a prom, breaking the fourth wall of his own life.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. Miranda Bailey marched in, her face set in a mask of professional urgency.
"Wright! Shepherd! Burke! We have a multi-car pileup on the I-5. The prom is over. Get your scrubs on. Now!"
Christopher pulled back, a sharp, dark laugh escaping his lips. "Right on cue," he whispered to Jack. "The universe hates a happy ending."
"Go," Jack said, his hand lingering on Christopher's cheek. "I'll be at the penthouse. Try not to save the entire world before sunrise."