The "007" moniker was currently spreading through the surgical floor like a staph infection. Christopher stood by the central nurses' station, watching George O'Malley fumble a chart while Alex Karev smirked nearby. In the original timeline, George would spend the day being the hospital's punching bag, a trajectory that eventually led him to a bus in the season five finale.
Not today, George, Christopher thought. I'm tired of watching the same car crash.
"O'Malley," Christopher barked.
George jumped, nearly dropping the chart. "Yes, Dr. Wright? I'm just... I was looking for the post-operative orders for the appendectomy in 4B."
"Forget 4B. Karev can handle the scut work; he's already mastered the art of looking busy while doing nothing," Christopher said, ignoring Alex's indignant squawk. "You're with me. We have a pericardial effusion in the ICU that needs a drain, and I've decided I'm too bored to do it myself."
George's face went white. "Me? But... Dr. Burke said I wasn't allowed near a scalpel after the 'incident' this morning."
"Dr. Burke is a cardiologist with an ego the size of a ventricular aneurysm," Christopher drawled, grabbing a pair of sterile gloves. "I'm a triple-board-certified resident who actually knows how to teach. Now, move your feet before I find someone with more spine. Like a goldfish."
They walked toward the ICU, George trailing like a nervous puppy. Christopher could feel the eyes of the other interns—Meredith's curiosity, Cristina's jealousy—burning into his back.
"Listen to me, George," Christopher said, stopping outside the patient's room. He lowered his voice, the sarcasm momentarily replaced by a cold, clinical intensity. "The '007' tag only sticks if you let it. You're overthinking the anatomy. You're trying to see the whole surgery at once. Don't. Just see the pericardium. It's a sac. It has fluid. You're going to empty it. It's no different than draining a blister, just with higher stakes."
"But if I nick the myocardium..."
"Then I'll fix it before the monitor even beeps," Christopher countered, stepping into the room. "I'm right here. I'm the safety net you didn't have this morning. Now, prep the site."
For the next twenty minutes, Christopher did something he had never done in two lifetimes: he was patient. He guided George's hand with a precision that was almost hypnotic, whispering the steps before George could even doubt himself.
When the straw-coloured fluid finally began to flow into the syringe, George let out a breath that sounded like a sob of relief.
"I did it," George whispered, staring at the syringe. "I didn't kill him."
"Of course you didn't," Christopher said, checking the vitals monitor. "Killing people is Karev's job. Yours is to stop shaking and go tell Burke that the '007' just performed a flawless pericardiocentesis."
George beamed, a genuine spark of confidence returning to his eyes. Christopher watched him leave, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth in his chest. He was changing the small things. The ripples.
His phone buzzed. A text from Jack: "I'm outside. The car is idling, and the reservation is in fifteen minutes. I hope you aren't covered in blood this time."
Christopher looked down at his clean scrubs. "Not a drop, Jack," he murmured.
As he headed for the exit, he passed Cristina Yang. She was staring at the ICU room, then at George, then back at Christopher.
"What are you playing at, Wright?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous. "You don't mentor people. You destroy them."
"Maybe I'm just trying a different 'The Wright Way' today, Cristina," he replied, not slowing down. "It's called 'not being a sociopath.' You should look it up in the DSM-5. It's a fascinating read."
He walked out into the night, the "007" curse officially broken, and a lawyer waiting to take him away from the script for a few hours.