The air in Joe's Bar was thick with the scent of spilled bourbon and the desperate relief of people who had survived another day in Seattle. Christopher sat at the far end of the scuffed wooden bar, as far away from the "intern corner" as possible. He could see Meredith, Cristina, and the others huddled over tequila shots, their voices a frantic blur of medical jargon and trauma.
He kept his back to them, staring into his ginger ale. He didn't drink—he needed his mind sharp, his memory unclouded by the haze of alcohol. Being the only person in the world with the "script" was a burden that required absolute sobriety.
"You look like you're plotting a murder, or perhaps a very complex heist."
The voice was deep, smooth, and lacked the frantic, high-pitched anxiety of a surgeon. Christopher turned his head slightly. A man had taken the stool two seats down. He was older—perhaps twenty-eight or twenty-nine—wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than Christopher's car. He had the kind of structured jawline and relaxed posture that suggested he was used to being the smartest, and richest, person in any room.
"Neither," Christopher said, his sarcasm coming out as a reflex. "I'm just mourning the death of my silence. It was a very peaceful silence until about ten seconds ago."
The man laughed, a genuine, warm sound. "I'm Jack. And after three months of a corporate litigation trial that felt like a slow crawl through broken glass, I'm immune to grumpiness. I just won, I'm rich, and I'm currently looking for someone to talk to who doesn't know what a 'motion to dismiss' is."
Christopher finally turned his stool to face him. He took in the man's sharp blue eyes and the way he loosened his silk tie. Jack Brady didn't smell like antiseptic or latex. He smelled like expensive sandalwood and success.
"Well, Jack, you're in luck," Christopher said, his voice softening just a fraction. "I have no idea what a motion to dismiss is. And frankly, I don't care."
"Perfect," Jack said, signaling Joe for another round. "And what do you do when you aren't guarding the end of the bar? Student? You look young to be this cynical."
Christopher winced internally. The 'child prodigy' label was a curse. "I'm in... consulting. High-stakes, high-stress, lots of blood-sucking personalities." It wasn't a lie. Surgeons were the ultimate consultants, and the hospital was full of vampires.
"Consulting. Sounds dry," Jack teased. "I'm a lawyer. Brady, Vance, & Associates. We handle the stuff people usually make movies about—minus the glamour and plus a lot of paperwork."
"I like paperwork," Christopher lied. "It doesn't talk back or die because you forgot to check a lab value."
Jack tilted his head, studying Christopher with an intensity that made the younger man's pulse do something strange and non-clinical. "You have very intense eyes, for a consultant. You look like you're carrying the weight of the world, or at least the weight of the next ten years."
Christopher froze. It was a lucky guess, but it hit too close to home. He knew exactly what the next ten years held—the plane crashes, the shootings, the weddings that ended in funerals. He looked at Jack and saw a blank slate. Jack wasn't a character in the show. He wasn't supposed to be here.
For the first time since he had transmigrated, Christopher felt a spark of something that wasn't preordained. Jack Brady was a wild card.
"Maybe I just need a change of pace," Christopher said, his voice quiet.
"I can provide that," Jack replied, leaning in. The space between them narrowed, the heat of the bar fading into the background. "No work talk. No 'consulting.' Just tell me something about you that isn't on a resume."
Christopher looked at him, a genuine, albeit small, smile touching his lips. "I hate coconut. And I think the person who invented the 'eight-hour workday' was an optimist who never actually worked."
Jack grinned. "I think we're going to get along just fine."
Across the bar, a loud burst of laughter erupted from the interns. Christopher saw Meredith glance toward the back, her eyes scanning the room. He quickly turned back to Jack, using the taller man's frame to shield himself from view. He wasn't ready for his two worlds to collide—not when this new one felt so much more inviting.
"So," Jack said, his voice a low vibration. "Do you have a name, or should I just call you 'The Consultant'?"
"Christopher," he said. "Just Christopher."