The scrub room was an icebox, the air smelling of chlorhexidine and the suffocating tension of a man who had just blown up his marriage. Derek Shepherd stood at the sink, his hands moving mechanically under the water, his eyes unfocused. He wasn't thinking about the epidural hematoma waiting in OR 1; he was thinking about the black lace dress he'd just left on an exam room floor.
Christopher stepped up to the adjacent sink, his movements fluid and precise. He didn't look at Derek. He didn't need to. He could practically smell the oxytocin and regret radiating off the man.
"You're scrubbing the skin off your knuckles, Derek," Christopher drawled, his voice a cool, clinical razor. "Unless you're planning on performing a total body transplant, I suggest you stop trying to wash away things that aren't on the surface."
Derek stiffened, his blue eyes finally snapping toward Christopher's reflection in the chrome. "I'm focused on the patient, Wright. Don't overstep."
"Focused?" Christopher let out a short, dark laugh as he kicked the foot pedal to rinse. "You're about as focused as a shattered lens. You've got tachycardia in your hands and a thousand-yard stare that belongs in a divorce court, not a surgical suite."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Derek snapped, his voice a desperate hiss.
Christopher turned, drying his hands with a sterile towel. He stepped into Derek's personal space, his eyes cold and knowing.
"I know that the 'Prom' is over," Christopher whispered, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly vague monotone. "I know that some choices are louder than others, and right now, yours is screaming. Snap out of it. If you walk into that OR with your mind in a basement closet, you're going to nick the middle cerebral artery, and I'm going to be the one who has to tell Addison why you're suddenly so... distracted."
Derek went pale. The mention of his wife—and the implication that Christopher knew exactly what had just transpired—hit him like a blunt force trauma.
"How do you—"
"I have excellent peripheral vision," Christopher interrupted, tossing the towel into the bin. "And a very low tolerance for mediocrity. Fix your face, Dr. Shepherd. The patient is fifteen, and unlike your personal life, his brain actually has a chance of being saved tonight."
Christopher pushed through the swinging doors into the OR, leaving Derek standing in the sterile silence. He knew he was being cruel, but the script was already messy enough. If he could force Derek to be a surgeon for three hours, maybe he could prevent at least one casualty in this shipwreck of a night.
As he reached for the scalpel, his mind flickered to Jack, waiting at the penthouse.
I'm coming home, Jack, he thought. Just as soon as I finish babysitting a Legend who's forgotten how to lead.