The Chief sat with a thud at the conference room table, frustrated by the past 48 hours' crises. As Chief of Surgery, he was obligated to pry into the lives of his recently-dubbed attendings and find out their intentions for Fellowship, his wife included. His wife. Cristina.
He had spent the entire day prior asking resident after resident whether they planned to stay or leave, and most everyone, he discovered, intended to seek their Fellowship elsewhere. He grew more anxious and fearful with each revelation. Karev was still a possibility, but Hunt wasn't hopeful. Who would give up an opportunity like Hopkins? There would be no question as to his decision, had it been him. Grey was still up in the air as well, though her situation was looking bleak as well, seeing as Boston had made a very compelling case to take her. He had heard from everyone, at least to some degree, except for Cristina. Hunt chuckled, pondering the irony in knowing everyone's considerations except for his own wife's.
The attendings in the meeting earlier in the day had simply assumed he of all people would know her intentions, so when he asked Teddy about her offers, the room shared a look of confusion. "Well, she didn't tell you?" Sloan had asked him, obliviously.
She had not told him. She had not told him anything in what felt like a lifetime. He wanted desperately for her to talk to him. He missed having her in his bed, sharing the details of her latest surgery, or Meredith's drama, or simply the poorly-baked muffin she had from the cafeteria that morning. He missed stroking her curls as she pressed tightly against him, her steady, confident breaths matching her steady, confident exterior. He missed her, all of her…even the parts of her he hated.
He looked like an anxious child, searching for the most political response he could muster, when Teddy saved him from having to answer. "Columbia and Stanford are playing hardball, but I'm confident that we're still in the mix." He looked at the room and saw anxiety among his colleagues. He saw not only nervousness at the prospect of losing their residents, but also disappointment. He attempted to distract himself by moving on to his other residents, finally closing the meeting with an order for them to find answers as soon as possible. The Great Migration was a bitch.
He stole a moment of peace from the tragedy this day had become in the on-call room, trying to think of anything other than how he was going to manage to replace five of the best residents in the country. He lied on his back staring at the ceiling, wishing this day would just end already. He drifted off to sleep, seeking comfort in the silence the on-call room had to offer. He was startled awake when he heard the door open. He felt a wave of dopamine evade his senses as she entered, closing the door delicately behind her. She stood in front of him silently, a conflicting look spreading across her face. He tossed his blanket aside, sitting up to look at her, accepting the conversation he knew was about to take place.
With an audible sigh of frustration, he looked nervously at the ground, then back up at her, and got right to the point. "So, what's it going to be? Columbia? Stanford? I hear Mayo's back in the mix." He said it not with resentment or bitterness, but with defeat. He looked at the floor sadly, praying she would pick option D: Seattle-with him.
Characteristically, Cristina remained silent, joining him on the bed. He sighed, his internal struggle brewing to the surface. He wanted to support her; to see her thrive; to be the best in her field, but he wanted to actually see it. She had shut him out, and it pained him. What pained him more was forcing himself to tell her that any choice she made would be a good one, as they were all excellent programs.
She seemed to ponder his words for a moment, sitting in silence with him. He nodded his head in acceptance of both her silence and her decision. He saw her look at him from the corner of his eye, but continued to nod, avoiding her gaze. It was far too painful for him to look at her in that moment, knowing she was going to leave him. Leave him. Leave her husband; her lover; her protector.
He feigned acceptance, knowing his disapproval wouldn't do him any good, when suddenly her small hands enveloped his face, and her lips were on his. He felt a rush of euphoria, considering for a brief second that she was giving him her answer in the form of intimacy. He thought better of it, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. He stuttered, "Wh-what are you doing?" She focused her eyes on his, stroking his cheek, and the world disappeared. He cared about nothing else for that brief moment in time. He set his eyes on her lips as she leaned in once again, and she took him by storm. Their lips crashed together, and like an electric current, their love was reignited. He gently cradled her neck and relaxed into her, craving her lips; her touch; her body; her love.
He guided her body below him, fearing it would be the last time he would be permitted to do so, and indulged in her advances. Her touch was sweet and passionate, but distant…he knew her answer hadn't changed, simply by the way she had taken him, but still he hoped.
Upon finishing their love-making, they laid in the bed, breathless for a while, when she moved to lay instead on top of him, painting circles on his chest with her finger. He allowed her to do so, staring intently at her all the while, hoping in vain that this had changed something. Once their breathing had returned to normal, he noticed she had still not made eye contact with him, maintaining a steady movement with her finger along his chest. Finally, she looked at him, and he smiled contentedly, prompting her to speak. "What?" She asked.
He could have said anything. "Stay with me." "Don't go." "I love you…" but he knew any of those things would be said in vain, so he settled with, "I'm happy." He looked at the ceiling then, avoiding her stare, and brought his hand to her hair, caressing it; savoring it, knowing it would probably be the last time. He acknowledged to her that he knew this didn't fix anything, and he was right. This fixed nothing. They had problems. They had conflicts of interest. They had resentment. She had made her decision, and he knew it…yet it still drove a stake through his chest when she verbally confirmed it.
"I'm leaving" she said simply. The words didn't surprise him in the slightest, but they still left him breathless. He looked up at her incredulously, bitterness showing in his otherwise exhausted expression. She laid her head on his chest then, avoiding his resentful stare, so he looked at the ceiling, sighing in acceptance.
He felt a shiver run up his spine as he remembered that moment. Her warm body, draped over him like a blanket, shielded him from the world-or so he had thought. Instead of shielding him, she had run him over like a freight train, and instead of a blanket, her body was a machine gun, shredding his heart into miniscule, indistinguishable muscle fibers. He pushed this thought out of his head, instead choosing to focus on another of the day's crises.
Altman had thrown a bombshell of realization his way the next morning when she revealed her plans to decline the offer with MEDCOM. MEDCOM was her dream job, so for her to deny it was one of the most shocking, incomprehensible notions he could have possibly conjured, but as they say, "you can't make this shit up."
He laid into her in the O.R. later that day, scolding her for refusing the job of her dreams. He demanded answers from her, wanting desperately to understand her reasoning. She stubbornly refrained from answering him, verbally noting his hypocrisy, rhetorically demanding, "Now you're pissed that I'm not leaving?"
He appealed to her military mentality then, asking, "Where is your loyalty? You're being asked to serve your country." This was a mentality they shared, and just one more reason for his confusion. He knew this would push her buttons; would trigger her to respond truthfully to him. He stared her down, unrelenting, and she finally spoke up.
"Do you know where we are right now, Hunt? This is the room where my husband died, and no matter how many wonderful and amazing and miraculous things happen in this room, it will always be the room where my husband died. I would love to leave here and never look back, but you're as broken and beaten as I have ever seen you." He looked down at the O.R. table with humility. "And after everything that I've put you through, the tolerance and kindness and friendship that you have shown me…" she choked on her words, stifling the incoming flow of tears. "I am not going to leave you."
Her words hit him hard. He loved Teddy. Of course he loved Teddy and regretted questioning her loyalty tremendously in that moment, but he was strong. He had survived a war for Christ's sake. What she said was true. He was as broken and beaten as he had ever felt too, but he would carry on, brave and strong as he had always done when tragedy came his way. He couldn't let his choices, predicaments, feelings, or anything else affect her life. It would be overtly selfish, and he refused to let her make such a tragic mistake on his behalf, so he did what he had to do. He fired her.
She had not taken it well, startled and hurt by his decision. She called him names; accused him of terrible things, but he took it stoically, knowing that she knew. She knew why he was firing her-not for lack of performance, skill, or anything else, but for her own damn good. She had stormed out, and he regretted that it ended that way. He hoped that she would realize what she already knew to be true and come around to him again, but in that moment, he pressed more weight on his already heavy heart, and blew out an exhausted, troubled sigh.
It wasn't long before she stormed back into the room, this time crying, and they looked at each other knowingly. They embraced one another warmly and fiercely as she cried into his shoulder. He breathed a sigh of relief knowing that she didn't hate him. Then, Teddy dropped her second bombshell of the day, shaking Hunt to his core by commanding him passionately, "You don't lose her. You fight. You fight for her. You hear me?" Her words struck him like only Teddy's words could. They were full of fire and determination and gave him new strength. He would do just that.
He nodded in confirmation, commanding her in equal fashion. "You go. And you be great."
As Hunt relaxed into the conference room chair, Teddy's words played in his head like a broken record. "You don't lose her…you fight for her." He was already contemplating ways to do this, but now he had to get back to work. The incoming traumas had consumed his day, so he had commanded his receptionist not to bother him with any calls that weren't relevant to anyone dying or Cristina. Now that the day had come to a close, he could take the time to deal with the unrelenting responsibilities of being Chief.
When he pressed play on the answering machine, he expected to hear about budget cuts, lawsuits, and Board meetings…he even wishfully imagined that he would hear Cristina's voice come through the speakers but abandoned that hope as soon as he heard the Boise Memorial Hospital representative come over the speaker. He expressed mild concern in her words, as she said his doctors had yet to arrive in Boise. Her voice was equally unconcerned and seemed to imply that calling about their tardiness was simply a formality, so he wrote it off as a flight delay. A second message indicated that his employees still hadn't arrived. He grew slightly more concerned, but still did not express alarm in the situation. Bad weather, perhaps? Hunt distracted himself with paperwork, still listening to his messages, when Dr. Sheehan came over the speaker a third time. Her voice sounded nervous; her words pressed. This caught his attention, and he looked at the machine as if he were looking directly at her. "We're starting to get a bit concerned here." His heart started to race. What did this mean? Where were his surgeons? He had put them on the plane himself. Why hadn't they arrived? Why hadn't anyone notified him?
He threw the papers down on the table and snatched the phone from its holder the moment the second beep indicated there were no other messages. He called the return number she had left and tapped his knuckles on the desk impatiently. "Come on, pick up," he grunted desperately. Finally, a woman's voice spoke blandly.
"This is Dr. Sheehan's office, Diane speaking."
Hunt spoke with dire urgency, his mind reeling. "This is Dr. Owen Hunt with Seattle Grace-Mercy West Hospital. I need to speak with Dr. Sheehan immediately."