The morning sun was too bright, reflecting off the chrome of Richard Webber's office with a clinical aggression that Christopher's headache did not appreciate. The Chief was sitting perfectly still, a single legal-sized envelope resting on his desk like a summons.
"The Hospital Prom is usually a night for intern mistakes and bad chiffon," Richard began, his voice a low, rhythmic baritone. "It isn't usually the venue for a surgical resident to announce a domestic partnership with one of the most aggressive litigators in the Pacific Northwest."
Christopher sat across from him, his posture impeccable despite the five hours of neurosurgery he'd just finished. He didn't reach for the sarcasm this time. He looked at Richard with a flat, unblinking honesty.
"His name is Jack Brady, Richard. And unless you're planning on auditing my sexual orientation for the board, I fail to see how his presence at a social event constitutes a conflict of interest."
"It's not his presence, Christopher. It's his firm," Richard countered, leaning forward. "Brady, Vance, & Associates has three active malpractice suits against this hospital. You're sleeping with the man who is trying to bankrupt my OR budget. It affects the optics."
Christopher let out a slow, steady breath. "The optics are a variable I can't control. But my surgical outcome is. Jack knows exactly where the operating room ends and the penthouse begins. He won't affect my work as much as you think he does—partly because I'm far too arrogant to let a lawyer tell me where to cut, and partly because I'm the only person in this building who isn't currently traumatized by their own interpersonal drama."
He paused, a faint, razor-sharp smile touching his lips. "If you're worried about the integrity of your staff, Richard, look at the man who just had sex in an exam room while his wife was upstairs. Look at the girl who cut an LVAD wire. My relationship is the most stable asset you have in this building right now. It provides me with the one thing a prodigy usually lacks: a reason to leave the hospital at night."
Richard stared at him for a long beat, searching for a lie in Christopher's ashen eyes. He found none.
"You're a cold-blooded bastard, Christopher," Richard whispered, though there was a hint of begrudging respect in his tone.
"I'm efficient, Chief. There's a difference," Christopher replied, standing up. "Now, unless you want to discuss the legal implications of my breakfast choices, I have a triple-bypass to prep. Tell Bailey I'll be five minutes late. I need to call my 'legal nuclear option' and tell him we're having Thai food tonight."
He walked out of the office, his head held high. He had defended his glitch in the system. He had defended Jack.
But as he reached the surgical floor, he saw Cristina Yang standing by the patient board, staring at a name that shouldn't have been there yet. It was a referral from Addison's private practice.
The ferry crash is coming, Christopher thought, a cold dread settling in his gut. The timeline is accelerating.