The post-op bridge was deserted, bathed in the sickly blue of the 4:00 AM emergency lights. Christopher was leaning against the railing, watching the rain blur the Seattle skyline, when the click of high-end heels signaled the arrival of the hospital's most elegant catastrophe.
Addison Montgomery stood beside him, her surgical scrubs still crisp despite the night's chaos. She didn't look at him; she looked at the same rainy horizon, her maternal-fetal surgeon instincts currently tuned to the frequency of her own crumbling marriage.
"You were in the OR with my husband for six hours, Christopher," she said, her voice like chilled silk. "He came out looking like he'd seen a ghost. Or a crime scene. And you... you look like you're holding the smoking gun."
Christopher didn't blink. He slowly turned his head, his face a masterpiece of bored indifference.
"A smoking gun, Addison? I'm a surgeon; if there's smoke in my vicinity, it usually means the bipolar cautery is malfunctioning," he drawled, his sarcasm cutting through the melodrama of the night. "And as for Derek's face, perhaps he's just realized that neuroanatomy is significantly more complicated than his haircare routine."
Addison turned to him, her eyes searching his. "He was distracted. More than usual. What happened in that exam room during the Prom, Christopher? People are talking."
Christopher let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like breaking glass. He stepped off the railing, adjusting his lab coat.
"Addison, I hate to shatter your protagonist complex, but I spent my evening with a litigator who makes your husband look like an understudy. I was far too busy having my own tryst and enjoying a tuxedo that actually fit to pay attention to which closet Derek was haunting."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a vague, lethal whisper. "If you're looking for infidelity, try the radiology wing. If you're looking for a confidant, try a bartender. I'm a resident, not a private investigator. I don't have the bandwidth to track your husband's hormonal migrations."
Addison flinched, the sharpness of his dismissal catching her off guard. She was used to being the smartest woman in the room, but Christopher was a prodigy with a spoiler alert for her entire life.
"You're a very cold young man, Christopher," she whispered.
"I prefer thermally efficient," he replied, already walking away toward the on-call rooms. "It keeps the ego from overheating. Get some sleep, Addison. Your neonates need you, even if your husband doesn't."
He left her standing in the rain-streaked light, his heart thumping with the dark thrill of his own insubordination. He had successfully deflected her, but he knew the Deredith fallout was a slow-motion train wreck that even he couldn't derail.
He pulled out his phone as he hit the elevator.
"The Prom was a disaster. The marriage is a corpse. I'm coming home to that scotch now. - C"