The penthouse was a cathedral of glass and shadow, the Seattle skyline for 2026 glittering like a scattered circuit board below. Jack was propped up on a modular velvet sofa, his chest wrapped in medical-grade compression, looking remarkably regal for a man who had recently been submerged in Elliott Bay.
Christopher sat at the edge of the teak coffee table, his surgical loupes discarded on a first-edition law text. He was currently focused on the IV port in Jack's arm, his fingers moving with a clinical tenderness that felt like a confession.
"You're hovering, Christopher," Jack said, his voice still raspy but gaining its litigator's edge. "I'm post-op, not terminal. I can feel you calculating my oxygen saturation from across the room."
"I'm ensuring the hardware Burke put in your aorta stays where it belongs," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm returning as his adrenaline finally subsided. "If you leak, the paperwork alone will kill me. It's purely selfish."
Jack reached out, his hand heavy with sleep, and caught Christopher's wrist. He pulled the younger man closer until Christopher was forced to look him in the eye—the ice-blue eyes that didn't have a script attached to them.
"You knew," Jack whispered, the galleon-light of the city reflecting in his pupils. "You warned me about the I-5. You told Meredith about the water. You act like a man who's already read the news before it happens. What are you, Christopher? A prophet or a statistician?"
Christopher froze. The transmigrator's burden felt like lead weights in his chest. He looked at the scars on Jack's chest, the ones he hadn't been able to prevent.
"I'm a triple-board certified freak of nature who happens to be very good at noticing patterns," Christopher said, his voice dropping into a low, melodic rasp. "And the pattern said I was going to lose the only person who doesn't treat me like a miracle. I didn't like that ending, Jack. So I edited it."
Jack pulled him down onto the sofa, ignoring the twinge of pain in his ribs. He tucked Christopher's head under his chin, his scent—sandalwood and hospital antiseptic—wrapping around Christopher like a shield.
"Don't edit too much," Jack murmured, his hand tangling in Christopher's dark hair. "I like the draft we have right now."
Christopher closed his eyes, finally allowing the The Wright Way persona to evaporate. In this quiet, private vacuum, he wasn't saving the world or dodging disasters. He was just a twenty-one-year-old who was terrified of the next page.
He drifted into a dreamless sleep, his last conscious thought a silent plea for the clocks to stop.