The Chief's office always smelled of old paper and expensive Scotch, a scent Christopher found oddly grounding compared to the sterile tang of the OR. Richard Webber sat behind his mahogany desk, his hands clasped, watching Christopher with the practiced intensity of a man who had seen everything.
"Sit down, Christopher," Richard said. It wasn't a request.
Christopher sank into the leather chair, crossing one leg over the other. He looked entirely too relaxed for a resident being summoned by the Chief of Surgery. "If this is about the coffee machine in the residents' lounge, I had nothing to do with it. Though, frankly, its existence is a medical hazard."
"This is about Katie Bryce," Richard said, leaning forward. "I spoke to Shepherd. I spoke to Burke. And I spoke to the paramedics."
"A riveting circle of conversation," Christopher drawled, his eyes tracking a fly on the windowpane. "I'm sure they all sang my praises."
"They're baffled, Christopher. And I'm concerned." Richard tapped a finger on the patient's chart. "You predicted a subarachnoid hemorrhage before the patient was out of the ambulance. You diagnosed a coarctation of the aorta from across a surgical table without a single diagnostic test. That isn't just 'prodigy' behavior. That's something else."
Christopher felt the familiar prickle of a lie forming. He couldn't exactly tell Richard that he'd watched this play out on a plasma screen in another life. 'Oh, don't worry, Chief, I just have the DVD box set of your life in my head.' That would get him a one-way ticket to psych.
"I have a high-functioning pattern recognition," Christopher said, his voice smooth and clinical. "The way she was seizing, the slight anisocoria of the pupils, the specific lag in her pulse—it all pointed to one conclusion. I don't guess, Chief. I calculate."
"Even for a calculation, it's a miracle," Richard countered. "Or it's a liability. If you start acting on 'hunches' without waiting for labs, you're going to kill someone. The board won't see a genius; they'll see a lawsuit."
"The board sees what you show them," Christopher snapped, his sarcasm finally bleeding through. "And right now, they see a twenty-one-year-old who saved a girl's life and corrected two department heads. Are you reprimanding me for being right, or for making your stars look slow?"
Richard's gaze hardened. "I'm reprimanding you for your arrogance. You're playing a dangerous game, Christopher. You act like you've already seen the end of the story. But in this hospital, the ending can change in a heartbeat."
If only you knew, Christopher thought. He thought about the Ellis Grey secret Richard was hiding. He thought about the tumor Richard would eventually develop. The irony was almost suffocating.
"I'm aware of the stakes, Richard," Christopher said, dropping the 'Chief' title intentionally to needle him. "But if I see a train wreck coming, I'm not going to stand on the tracks and wait for the official schedule to confirm it. I'm going to move the train."
"At what cost?" Richard asked quietly.
"Usually just my social life," Christopher quipped, standing up. "Are we done? I have three interns in the pit who are currently trying to figure out how to use a thermometer without poking an eye out. It's a very delicate process."
Richard watched him walk to the door. "One more thing. Shepherd is asking questions about how you knew about his... personal situation. I'd suggest you keep your 'pattern recognition' away from the private lives of your superiors."
Christopher paused at the door, a dark, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Tell Derek that if he wants to keep a secret, he should stay away from people who actually pay attention. Or at least buy a better lock for his trailer."
He closed the door before Richard could respond, leaving the Chief in a stunned silence.
As Christopher stepped back into the hallway, his pager buzzed. It was an urgent call from the pit. He checked the room number. Room 2312.
He stopped dead. 2312 was the room for the "unnamed" patient from the pilot—the man who was about to have a massive pulmonary embolism while Meredith was on duty.
Time to go play hero again, he thought, his pace quickening. Or maybe this time, I let the plot happen. No. I hate a messy ending.