The post-op bridge was bathed in the pale, apologetic light of a Seattle morning. Addison Montgomery stood by the glass, her designer luggage already waiting in the lobby. She was leaving for Los Angeles, exchanging the rain and infidelity of Seattle for the sun and private practice.
Christopher leaned against the railing, his surgical scrubs replaced by a cashmere overcoat. He looked at the world-class neonatal surgeon with a mask of sharp, clinical indifference.
"I hear the weather in Santa Monica is better for your complexion, Addison," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm a parting gift. "Less blood on the sidewalks, more white wine on the beach."
Addison turned, a sad, knowing smile touching her lips. "And I hear you're buying a house with a lawyer. Stability, Christopher? It doesn't suit your reputation as the hospital's resident ghost."
"I'm not buying a house, Addison. I'm building a perimeter," he countered, his voice dropping into a low, melodic rasp. "Go to California. Save the babies. And try not to fall in love with anyone who has a god complex. We have enough of those in Seattle."
"Goodbye, Christopher," she said, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. "Try to stay human. It's the only complication you haven't mastered yet."
He watched her walk toward the elevator, the last thread of the Addison/Derek/Meredith triangle finally snapping. The script was moving south.
Christopher walked out to the valet, where Jack's Mercedes was idling. The drive to Queen Anne was a silent, electric transition. When they reached the brownstone, Jack didn't wait for the engine to cool.
He handed Christopher a heavy brass key. "No more on-call rooms. No more antiseptic on the pillows."
Inside, the brownstone smelled of fresh paint and Jack's sandalwood. There was a bottle of Krug Champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the marble island.
"To the The Wright Way," Jack toasted, pouring two glasses.
Christopher took a sip, the bubbles a sharp contrast to the bitter adrenaline of the ferry crash. He looked at Jack, and for the first time since transmigrating, he felt grounded. He wasn't saving the world; he was opening a bottle of wine.
"You're smiling," Jack noted, pulling him closer. "A genuine, uncalculated smile. I should document this for the Chief."
"If you do, I'll sue you for breach of privacy," Christopher whispered, his sarcasm melting into a deep, private kiss.
They celebrated in the quiet, golden light of the empty house, the monitors of Seattle Grace finally silent.