The adrenaline of saving Derek Shepherd had left a bitter, metallic aftertaste in Christopher's mouth. He stood on the rooftop of Grey Sloan, the Seattle skyline twinkling with a cold, indifferent beauty. He had dismantled the show's greatest tragedy, and yet, he felt like a man standing on a collapsing bridge.
I've played every card, he thought, his internal monologue finally slowing its frantic pace. Lexie is breathing. Derek is in surgery, not a morgue. The script is a pile of confetti.
"I figured I'd find the boy king mourning his latest victory up here."
Christopher didn't turn. He knew the scent of expensive sandalwood and the steady, grounding presence of Jack. The lawyer stepped up beside him, leaning his elbows on the cold concrete ledge.
"You look like you just went twelve rounds with God, Chris," Jack said softly.
"God was a hack writer, Jack. I just gave him an editor," Christopher replied, his sarcasm lacking its usual bite. "Derek is alive. The timeline is... it's unrecognizable now. I don't know what happens tomorrow. For the first time since I woke up in this body, I'm blind."
Jack turned to him, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Good. Because knowing the future makes you a spectator. I want you to be a participant. I want you to be here."
Christopher looked at him, really looked at him. Jack had been the only constant in a world of shifting plot points. He was the only person who didn't feel like a character in a medical drama.
"I don't know how to be a participant, Jack," Christopher whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm a prodigy. I'm a surgeon. I'm a walking spoiler alert."
"You're a man I love," Jack countered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He didn't get down on one knee—that wasn't their style. He simply held it out, the diamond catching the moonlight. "And I'd like to make sure that whatever 'season' comes next, I'm in the opening credits with you."
Christopher froze. His brain, capable of calculating intracranial pressure in seconds, went completely blank.
"Is this... a bribe to get me to stop sabotaging public infrastructure?" Christopher asked, his sarcasm returning as a desperate reflex.
"It's a proposal, you idiot," Jack laughed, though his hand was shaking. "Will you marry me, Christopher? No more scripts. Just us."
Christopher looked at the ring, then at the man who had seen through every sharp-tongued defense he'd ever built. He thought about the plane that didn't crash, the bus that didn't kill, and the life he had stolen from the clutches of a cruel narrative.
"I suppose I should say yes," Christopher said, his eyes stinging with a rare, genuine heat. "If only to ensure I have a legal advocate when the NTSB eventually catches up with me."
He stepped forward and kissed Jack, a deep, grounding connection that felt more real than any surgery he'd ever performed.
"Yes, Jack. I'll marry you. But if you plan a destination wedding on a private plane, I'm filing for divorce immediately."