The ICU at Seattle Grace was currently the epicentre of a existential crisis. While Jack was finally sleeping off his general anaesthetic in Room 412, Christopher stood behind the glass of the trauma bay where Meredith Grey lay—blue, hypothermic, and clinically dead.
Richard Webber was performing chest compressions with a rhythmic, desperate thud. Bailey was calling out vitals that weren't there. In the original script, this was the moment Meredith "gave up" and met her mother and Denny Duquette in a liminal purgatory.
Christopher stepped into the room, his lab coat rustling. He didn't look at the monitors; he looked at Meredith's face. It was frozen, a ceramic mask of resignation.
"She's been down for over an hour, Christopher," Richard croaked, his hands slick with sweat. "The acidosis is too high. Her blood is basically vinegar at this point."
"She's not dead until she's warm and dead," Christopher said, his voice a cool, monotone rasp that acted like a stabiliser in the room. He walked to the head of the bed and leaned down, his mouth inches from Meredith's ear.
"Grey," he whispered, loud enough only for the subconscious to hear. "I told you the water was cold. I told you surgeons don't stop fighting. If you let go now, you're just another statistic in a medical journal. You're better than a tragedy. Kick the ghosts out and get back in the game."
"Wright, what are you doing?" Bailey snapped, pausing with the defibrillator paddles.
"Providing a cognitive stimulus," Christopher drawled, his sarcastic shield sliding back into place. "Since your CPR is apparently too monotonous to keep her interested. Shock her again. 360 joules. And try to look like you mean it this time."
Bailey glared at him, but she adjusted the dial. "Clear!"
THUMP.
The gurney jumped. The monitor wailed its continuous, flat tone. For five agonising seconds, the room held its breath.
Blip.
A single, jagged QRS complex appeared on the screen. Then another. Then a sinus rhythm so steady it felt like a miracle.
Meredith's eyes flew open, shattering the ceramic mask. She let out a jagged, wet gasp, her hands clutching the bedsheets. She looked directly at Christopher, her pupils pinpoint and terrified.
"You... you told me," she croaked, her voice barely audible over the ventilator.
"I told you I hate paperwork, Grey," Christopher said, his hands in his pockets, his face a mask of bored brilliance. "Try to stay dry for the rest of the week. I don't have the bandwidth for two resurrections in one day."
He walked out of the trauma bay, his knees nearly buckling the moment he hit the hallway. He had done it. He had used the spoiler to save the lead. The timeline was now officially his plaything.
He made his way back to Room 412. Jack was awake, watching the Seattle news on the wall-mounted TV.
"Heard the resurrection was a success," Jack said, his voice raspy but warm.
"People in this building are dramatic, Jack," Christopher said, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Jack's iv-taped hand. "They can't even die without making a scene."
"And you?" Jack asked, searching Christopher's eyes. "Are you done playing God for today?"
"I think I'm ready to just be a twenty-one-year-old with a boyfriend who almost got submerged," Christopher whispered, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Jack's forehead.