The scrub room was silent, save for the rhythmic slap-slap of Christopher's gloves hitting the bin. He could feel the weight of two sets of eyes on his back—Richard Webber's weary authority and Derek Shepherd's fractured ego.
In the original timeline, this room would be filled with the heavy grief of Henry Lamott's death. Instead, the air was charged with a confusing, electric triumph.
"That was... unconventional," Richard finally said, leaning against the sterile stainless steel. "And by unconventional, I mean it bordered on medical malpractice right up until the moment his heart started beating again."
Christopher turned, his face a mask of bored brilliance as he dried his hands. "Results are rarely conventional, Chief. If they were, everyone would be a triple-board-certified prodigy, and I'd have much shorter lines at the cafeteria."
Derek stepped forward, his scrub cap in his hand. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost—or a god. "You ignored my direct order to close, Christopher. You pushed a vertebral artery repair through a field of bone shrapnel that I—a board-certified head of neurosurgery—deemed impossible."
"Then I suppose it's a good thing I don't believe in the impossible, Derek," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm cutting through the tension like a scalpel. "It saves a lot of time on paperwork."
"Enough," Richard said, his voice dropping into that low, 'Chief of Surgery' rumble. "You're a hero today, Wright. The board is going to want to throw you a parade, and the family is currently calling you a saint. But listen to me very carefully."
Richard moved closer, his gaze hardening. "You are a resident in my hospital. You are part of a surgical team. If you continue to treat Attending surgeons like obstacles and protocols like suggestions, I don't care how many miracles you perform—you will be benched. You need to tone down the insubordination and start working with your colleagues, not over them."
Christopher felt the familiar itch of the "script" trying to pull him back into line. He knew that in this building, ego was the currency, and he had just bankrupt the two most powerful men in the room.
"You want me to play well with others, Richard?" Christopher asked, a sharp, dangerous tilt to his head. "Even when 'others' are about to let a fifteen-year-old die because they can't see past their own textbooks?"
"I want you to be a surgeon, not a martyr," Richard countered. "Go find your intern group. Help Bailey with the post-op. Show them that the 'Steak-Knife Surgeon' actually knows how to be a teammate."
Christopher sighed, the weight of the "The Wright Way" settling back onto his shoulders. He knew he had to play the game to stay close to the plot. If he was fired, he couldn't stop the next disaster.
"Fine," Christopher said, heading for the door. "I'll go play 'nice' with the children. But if Karev asks me one more stupid question about post-op fluid management, I'm not responsible for the verbal trauma that follows."
As he stepped into the hallway, his phone buzzed. A text from Jack: "The firm just got a call. Some VIP's family is looking for a lawyer to set up a 'thank you' trust for a 'Dr. Wright.' I told them you prefer scotch. Dinner at 9?"
Christopher felt a genuine, unscripted laugh bubble up in his throat. He pulled out his phone and typed back: "Make it 9:30. I have to go pretend to be a human being for a few hours. It's exhausting work."
He looked down the hall and saw Meredith, Cristina, and George heading his way, their faces full of questions. He straightened his lab coat, the hero of the hour and the terror of the department.