The property deed felt heavier than a surgical textbook in Christopher's hands. He stood in the middle of the hospital lobby, the fluorescent glare of Seattle Grace fading into the background as he stared at the legal description of a Queen Anne brownstone.
"You're calculating the structural integrity, aren't you?" Jack asked, a low, knowing chuckle vibrating in his chest as he leaned into Christopher's space.
"I'm calculating the probability of me actually being home long enough to memorize the floor plan," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm a thin veneer over a visceral surge of relief.
In the original Grey's Anatomy script, the residents lived in a rotating carousel of leaky houses and failed romances. But Christopher was a transmigrator who had already hacked the system. He looked at the deed and saw a fortress—a sanctuary where the code blues couldn't reach him.
"It has a library for your medical journals," Jack whispered, his hand sliding down to grip Christopher's wrist. "And a kitchen where I can fail at cooking Thai food while you judge my technique."
"I accept," Christopher said, his voice dropping its clinical edge for a hushed, genuine tone. "But if you pick curtains that look like hospital drapes, I'm filing for an injunction."
Jack laughed, pressing a kiss to Christopher's temple right as the elevator doors opened. Cristina Yang stepped out, her eyes landing on the intimate moment with the sharpness of a scalpel.
"The Oracle is nesting," she remarked, her voice flat. "I hope the new house is fireproof, Wright. Given the explosions you tend to attract."
"It's fully insured, Cristina," Christopher shot back, his sarcastic shield snapping back into place. "And it has a very high wall specifically designed to keep suspicious residents from peering into my personal life."
He walked past her, the deed tucked safely into his lab coat. He had accepted the stability. He had anchored himself.
As they walked toward the parking garage, his pager buzzed. It was a consult from Pediatrics.
The Gourd Case, Christopher thought, his internal script already forecasting the pathology. A rare fungal infection that Arizona Robbins hasn't arrived to diagnose yet.
"One more consult, Jack," Christopher said, his eyes hardening. "Then we go home."