The black Mercedes S-Class pulled up to the valet stand at Canlis, its tires whispering against the rain-slicked pavement. Christopher stepped out, the cool Seattle air a brief mercy against the phantom heat of the hospital's trauma lights. He wasn't in scrubs; he was in a slim-fit black turtleneck and a tailored overcoat, looking less like a surgical prodigy and more like the noir protagonist his life had become.
Inside, the restaurant was a cathedral of mid-century modern elegance, overlooking the Lake Union skyline. Jack was already at the table, a bottle of Lagavulin 16 resting between two crystal glasses.
"You look like you've just committed a crime, Christopher," Jack said, his voice a low, warm baritone that didn't belong in a world of EKG alarms.
"I just lied to a Chief of Surgery to protect five interns who are statistically likely to get me fired by next Thursday," Christopher said, sinking into the leather chair. He took a long, steadying sip of the scotch. "So, in a way, I did."
"You saved them," Jack noted, his eyes tracking Christopher with a litigator's precision. "But you're wearing the weight of it like a shroud. Why? In your world, people die. It's part of the job description."
Christopher leaned back, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. He couldn't tell Jack that Denny Duquette was a canon event. He couldn't say that he knew the exact time of death before the heart even stopped.
"The unwritten rules of our relationship, Jack," Christopher began, his sarcasm returning like a familiar armor. "Rule one: Don't ask me how I know things. Rule two: If I tell you to file a malpractice suit before the patient even enters the OR, just do it. And rule three..."
He paused, the mask of the jaded prodigy slipping just enough for Jack to see the terrified twenty-one-year-old underneath.
"Rule three: Don't let me become part of the script," Christopher whispered. "The hospital is a loop. It's the same tragedies, the same egos, the same Season Finale disasters. You... you aren't in the loop. You're the only thing that's real."
Jack reached across the table, his hand covering Christopher's. It was a solid, grounding weight. "I'm not a script, Christopher. I'm a litigator. I don't follow rules; I negotiate them. And I'm negotiating for more of this. No medicine, no LVAD wires, no triple-board certification."
"Is that a closing argument?" Christopher asked, a faint, genuine smirk touching his lips.
"It's an opening statement," Jack replied.
They finished the night in a quiet bubble, far from the echoes of Snow Patrol's 'Chasing Cars' that Christopher knew was currently playing in Izzie's head. But as the valet brought the car around, Christopher's pager buzzed.
He looked at the screen. One word: PROM.
The Hospital Prom. The night Meredith and Derek would blow up their lives in an exam room. The night the interns would have to stand in the wreckage of Denny's room.
"I have to go back," Christopher said, his voice flat. "The Chief wants a presence at the hospital-wide event. Apparently, my punishment for saving everyone's career is formal wear and forced socialisation."
"A prom in a hospital," Jack laughed, shaking his head. "Only in your world, Dr. Wright."
"You have no idea," Christopher murmured, looking at the glowing hospital on the hill. "You have absolutely no idea."