Ch.4
The water pipes were panting in synchrony with her heart as Cristina leaned on Webber's bookcase, the tip of her toes brushing back and forth against the carpet.

Burke was sitting only two feet across her, a distance close enough for him to catch her if she fell, although she knew it would not happen. Everyone was stiff as a stone in the Chief's office. Nobody would move a step even if she collapsed. Besides, Cristina Yang was there to face the verdict of Yang vs. The Rest of the World; she was not there expecting the slightest form of sympathy.

What makes you think you deserve to stand here beside me without hiding your face in shame?—Among all the nasty things Bailey could have said, this was the only one that was not uttered out loud but deeply felt by Cristina as the two stood side by side.

More words were spoken and the word justice hit her repeatedly. Had her creativity been a little more active like her best friend Meredith's, images of her wearing an orange jumpsuit, clutching at the iron bars of her prison cell would have conjured up in Cristina's head.

Was she the only one who should be punished? Didn't those people in front of her who were older, stronger and more experienced have a role to play as well? She never questioned her fate of being reprimanded, but she couldn't quite decide if what she did to the patients or her boyfriend was more unforgivable.

The dearth of management skills Webber possessed did not bring the meeting to a satisfying conclusion, although he managed to keep everyone quiet long enough for Cristina to escape.

Leaving the room feeling as if she had been trapped in a bathroom filled with too much hot steam, Cristina did not find much luck in the locker room either. She grew up in a hostile social environment and her sharp tongue was her most powerful self-defense. Yet, as she threw her best possible sarcasm at George O'Malley when he stared at her as if she had murdered his dad, Cristina was shaking inside—The aggressive flame of anger in George's eyes reminded her of Burke's stare.

It was the emptiest form of fury that kept haunting her like a clear sky before the storm. Cristina was anticipating an outburst, but Burke wasn't even looking at her anymore.

In the men's room, what Burke saw was the reflection of a stranger. He could not believe the man in the mirror was Preston Burke. It wasn't just because he took off his glasses as he splashed water over his face, but also the fact that the man standing in front of him was laden with more guilt than his facial muscles could hold.

Twelve hours ago, his blood boiled because of the lack of guilt in Cristina's attitude. At this particular moment in time, he was consumed by guilt because of Cristina.

In a crime, there had to be a perpetrator and a victim. In Preston Burke's dictionary, the antonym to right was wrong. But was there really only one truth? One wrongdoer? One victim? Did it really matter to have someone take the blame and punished if no one was happy in the end?

They had not spoken to each other for nearly a day. Technically, they still lived under the same roof the night before; they shared the same pot of coffee Cristina made; they just spent the best hours of the morning in the same room at Seattle Grace, hearing the same insult from Bailey and the lame resolution proposed by the Chief. If fate allowed, they might even run into each other multiple times at work.

Yet, they were not talking.

Burke was still angry with the way Cristina handled their secret, but it bugged him that the last word he ditched at her was to leave his OR.

Stories were told daily around the world about how the wife never got a chance to tell her husband how much she loved him before he suddenly died in a terrorist attack, or how the son never got to apologize to the father for being distant and heartless when the old man failed to wake up from his sleep.

After all the sweetness and sorrow they had faced together, after all the hard work he put into the relationship, was he ready to allow that to be their final conversation if the world was to end for either of them on this very day?

Burke let the fingers of his left hand grip his throat before they fell on the edge of the sink.

Silence was a way to escape from his pain, but it gave him no consolation to remain quiet.

Putting his glasses back on, Burke made an effort to craft out a confident smirk. It wasn't too convincing, but probably adequate to fend off his old enemy. Erica Hahn came to Seattle Grace without knowing about the scandal and she'd better leave without knowing it either.

Burke hooked his fingers tightly together as he approached Mr. O'Malley's room. Cristina's familiar figure pushed through the corner of his eyes, but Burke's eyes hardly blinked.

Nobody had to know how he was feeling. Work was serious business. Whatever issues he was having with Cristina, he had to put them aside for now.