The surgical lounge was a tomb of medical-grade fluorescent light and the hiss of a dying coffee machine. Christopher sat in a leather armchair, his surgical loupes resting on a copy of The New England Journal of Medicine.
Across from him, Thatcher Grey sat clutching a styrofoam cup, his hands trembling with the early signs of tremors. In the original canon, Thatcher's cirrhosis would go undiagnosed until it required a liver transplant from Meredith.
Not today, Thatcher, Christopher thought, his sarcastic shield momentarily lowered. I'm tired of surgical martyrs.
"You're looking jaundiced, Thatcher," Christopher said, his voice a cool, clinical monotone. "And your sclera has a yellow tint that I usually associate with liver failure or a very poorly lit horror movie."
Thatcher blinked, his eyes bloodshot. "I—I'm just tired, Dr. Wright. Lexie... she's an intern now. I'm just stressed."
"Stress doesn't cause palmar erythema," Christopher drawled, standing up and handing Thatcher a lab requisition form he had already pre-filled. "I want a full liver panel, an AFP, and a portal ultrasound. If you don't do it now, you won't be around to see Lexie finish her residency."
Thatcher took the paper, his face ashen. "How do you... how do you just see these things?"
"I'm a pattern recognizer, Thatcher. And your biology is screaming," Christopher said, turning to leave.
As he stepped into the hallway, he ran into Cristina Yang, who was holding a stack of patient charts and a predatory expression.
"You did it again," she stated, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "The nurses are calling you 'The Oracle'. They say you predicted the ambulance crash and now you're diagnosing cirrhosis in the hallway. What's the trick, Wright? Are you hacking the database or just playing God?"
Christopher stopped, his hands in his pockets, his face a mask of bored brilliance. "The 'Oracle' tag is derivative, Cristina. It lacks imagination. If I were hacking the database, I'd have found a way to delete your bedside manner years ago."
He leaned in, his voice a low, sharp whisper. "I'm not an oracle. I'm a surgeon who actually pays attention. Thatcher's liver is failing because he's an alcoholic, and Lexie is vibrating because she has anxiety. It's data, Yang. Not magic. Now, unless you have a ruptured aorta for me, I have a Thai food date that I've already rescheduled twice."
He walked past her, his heart hammering under his ribs. He was tamping down the rumors, but the timeline was becoming fragile. He had saved Stan. He was saving Thatcher. He was re-writing the DNA of the show.
He pulled out his phone as he reached the valet stand. "Thatcher is in early-stage failure. I've mitigated the transplant crisis. I'm coming home to Jack before Cristina starts a conspiracy theory on Reddit. - C"