Jack Brady had a way of looking at Christopher that made him forget, for a fleeting second, that he was living inside a scripted tragedy. It was refreshing. Jack didn't want to talk about neuroplasticity or the Chief's latest power play; he wanted to talk about the best hidden dive bars in Seattle and why the city's rain was superior to New York's.
"So, Christopher," Jack said, leaning his elbow on the bar, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "Since you aren't a fan of the eight-hour workday, how about we negotiate a different kind of schedule? Give me your number. I'd like to see if your personality holds up in the daylight, or if you're strictly a creature of the night."
Christopher leaned back, his expression a mask of practiced nonchalance. He wasn't going to let Jack see how much the attention actually affected him. "Bold move, Jack. Usually, people wait at least two drinks before they try to move into my contacts list."
"I told you, I'm a litigator," Jack said with a wink. "I know when I have a winning case. I don't see the point in delaying the verdict."
Christopher let out a huff that was almost a laugh. "You're very confident. It's almost a medical condition."
"Is it terminal?" Jack asked, his eyes dancing with amusement.
"Only if you keep using lawyer puns," Christopher replied. He reached out to grab a napkin, intending to write his number down, when the sudden, aggressive beep-beep-beep of his pager shattered the moment.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet pocket of the bar they had carved out for themselves. Christopher's hand flew to his hip, his instincts overriding his desire to be 'just Christopher.'
"Consultant emergency?" Jack asked, one eyebrow raised in curious skepticism.
Christopher glanced at the small screen. Code – PIT – RESPIRATORY DISTRESS. It was the pulmonary embolism patient. He knew it. If he didn't move now, Meredith Grey was going to have her first official 'patient death' on her conscience, and the hospital's legal department—which Jack probably knew people in—would be a nightmare for weeks.
"Something like that," Christopher said, his voice turning sharp and clinical again. He grabbed a pen from the bar, scribbled his number on a napkin with the speed of a man writing a prescription, and shoved it into Jack's hand.
"I have to go. People are... failing to breathe properly," Christopher said, already sliding off the stool.
Jack caught his wrist for a split second, his grip firm but gentle. "Christopher. You didn't finish your drink."
"Charge it to my tab," Christopher tossed over his shoulder, already halfway to the door. "And don't call me until tomorrow. I'm about to be very busy playing God."
He burst through the doors of Joe's Bar and sprinted across the street toward the hospital entrance. As he ran, he tore off his civilian jacket, revealing the scrub top underneath. The transition from 'human being' back to 'surgical prodigy' took less than thirty seconds.
He hit the ER doors at a dead run, passing a startled Nurse Tyler.
"Where's the PE?" Christopher shouted.
"Room three! Dr. Grey is losing him!"
Christopher skidded into the room. Meredith was standing there, paralyzed, holding a bag-valve mask while the patient turned a terrifying shade of blue.
"Step aside, Grey," Christopher commanded, grabbing a syringe of tPA he had snatched from the cart on his way in. "The Consultant is in."