The fluorescent lights of Grey Sloan—still Seattle Grace for now—hummed with a buzzing frequency that Christopher felt in his marrow. At twenty-one, his presence in the surgical lounge was a statistical impossibility, a glitch in the medical matrix. He sipped his espresso, watching the double doors.
Today was the day. The "007" era was about to begin.
Richard Webber stood at the front of the lobby, preparing his "Line in the Sand" speech. Christopher leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over his pristine white coat. He'd already performed two valve replacements and a craniotomy this morning. He was the hospital's secret weapon, the triple-threat prodigy, and the only person in the building who knew that the floor they were standing on would eventually be a literal disaster zone of bombs, shooters, and plane crash survivors.
"Dr. Wright," Richard nodded, spotting him. "Care to join the welcoming committee?"
"I'd rather watch the lambs meet the slaughter from here, Chief," Christopher said, his voice smooth with a jagged edge of sarcasm. "It's more cinematic."
Then, they filed in. Meredith Grey, looking perpetually hungover; Cristina Yang, vibrating with a competitive frequency that Christopher actually respected; and George O'Malley, looking like a startled deer in a world of wolves.
Christopher's gaze lingered on Meredith. He knew about the tequila, the Shepherd one-night stand, and the Alzheimer's secret she was carrying like an anchor. It was exhausting, being the only one with the script. He felt like a god trapped in a very expensive, very dramatic soap opera.
"You're the Wright kid," a voice rasped.
Christopher didn't need to turn to know it was Miranda Bailey. "The 'kid' is board-certified in three specialties, Miranda. But please, feel free to treat me like a toddler if it helps you cope with my salary."
Bailey cut him a look that could have cauterized a wound. "I have five interns. Move."
He watched her lead the group away. He knew George was about to botch an appendectomy. He knew Izzie Stevens would eventually fall in love with a dying man and steal a heart. He knew it all. It was a burden of spoils.
Walking toward the OR gallery, he passed Derek Shepherd. The "McDreamy" hair was in full effect. Christopher felt a familiar, sharp pang of annoyance—and something else he refused to categorize. Being gay in this hospital was a minefield; being gay and knowing every future heartbreak made him want to stay permanently scrubbed in.
"New faces," Derek remarked, leaning on the railing next to him. "Think any of them will last?"
Christopher looked down at Meredith, who was staring at Derek with a mix of horror and realization. The pilot episode was officially in motion.
"Some will," Christopher said, his internal monologue screaming about ferry boats and post-it notes. "But most of them are just walking tragedies waiting for a soundtrack."
He turned to leave, but his pager chirped. A trauma was coming in. The first real test of the new class. He checked the code and smirked.
"Showtime," he muttered. As he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with a tall, brooding man who shouldn't have been here yet—a man whose face Christopher recognized from a season far, far down the line.