Burke:

'This job was enough for him.'

He reminded himself of this, as he fell back onto his bed, the shadows of his apartment lengthening around him. The lights from the neighbouring apartment were blaring uninvited into his bedroom. He groaned, and swiftly crossed to close the blinds. He wanted darkness and solitude for his thoughts. He wanted to regain his control and his composure. He wanted…

What?

He wasn't entirely sure. But ending it with Cristina had been the first step in attempting to regain his perspective. He quashed the desire he had to be in the on-call room then and there with Cristina – with Dr Yang – he corrected himself.

The following day he needed to oversee everything, and be everywhere, and hold all the answers. The board was busy and overcrowded, he had squabbling surgeons, bumped surgeries, organs required, and everyone looked to him to provide wisdom.

He held his head up, and walked erect. He did his utmost to keep calm and collected, and to judge each situation levelly. But control, especially when we desire it the most, is elusive. Had he been speaking with Cristina about what they were each actually feeling, he would have discovered she was experiencing a similar struggle. But he'd made the decision that being detached and professional was the way to forge ahead. Otherwise, how would he ever be Chief one day?

Still, she herself seemed to be everywhere. In the lobby at the start of the day, observing his interaction with Shepherd over his bumped surgery. Burke went through the motions with Derek, but was acutely aware of Cristina. Of the dark circles he glimpsed under her eyes, as the elevator doors took her from his sight.

There she was, when four MVA victims, one already dead, overtook the E.R, and a complicated family situation arose. Burke levelly assessed the situation: he had Bob Seabird, who had six hours left on the operating table. The end of this six hours would spell his end, unless his son, Scotty, agreed to a liver transplant.

To his dismay, Cristina had her own assessment of the situation, as she was the intern assigned to his wife's case, Mia. She saw: a wife beater; an angry, dangerous man who had already killed another on the road that day. This was not the kind of human being who deserved a second chance, especially when his young son was already agonizing over the decision.

He kept his gaze fixed on her as she was by Mia's bedside, because he was disapproving of how she was casting her judgments of the situation onto the patient. The fact that he was so openly staring quite escaped his attention. For he was regaining control of this situation, or so he told himself.

He took Cristina aside outside the room, and asked her to explain itself. The situation was complicated, she asserted.

"For social workers, yes! Not for you. It isn't up to you."

He began to walk away, when he heard her snide reply, "you've made that perfectly clear."

Anger flared up in him, as he spun back to face her. How dare she address him like that? She was an intern addressing the interim Chief. She should accept his teachings. "Well, I'm glad we have an understanding," he responded coolly.

"I'm sure you are," she spat back icily, before striding away.

Burke immediately glanced around, making sure noone had viewed this interaction, before he swiftly left.

The day continually worsened. In addition to all the overwhelming responsibilities of being Chief, he had Dr. Orson badgering him repeatedly about whether there was a liver coming for his patient. Burke strode tiredly to his temporary office, hoping Karev had a firm handle on the situation with the Seabird boy.

He stopped short at the sight of Adele in the office, but let her go about her business. His ears perked up at her mentioning her desire for Richard to retire. She easily perceived this. She declared that he was perfect for this job.

That part was a compliment. But how was it that she had described him? Unattached and obsessive? He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. He was fine over the assessment of him being obsessive about his job. Any surgeon at the top of their game needed to be. Unattached? Perhaps now, but he didn't always want to remain that way.

But he wanted to be so much more than this. Could he be so much more, and still be a successful Chief?

He sighed, and began to polish his glasses. Today was a terrible day. Even his dream seemed diminished, in some capacity. Control always seemed beyond his reach.

He needed to reassess. What could he control?

His decisions, and how far the influence of these stretched. That was his first realization, as two of his doctor's tussled over a potential transplant patient. Several patients were waiting for this woman's organs. But she was decerebrate, Shepherd and O'Malley argued. She needed more tests. All the while that this struggle was occurring, he was keenly aware of Cristina's eyes on him. Oh, how he was on trial for all in that moment.

So he did what he could: he judged the situation, and made a decision based on what he could control. All day, and for the last little while in his life, things had been slipping from his grasp because he was trying to control everything. Perhaps he needed to settle for a smaller realm of reach.

He gave the patient to Shepherd. He mentioned the fact that perhaps Bob Seabird wasn't deserving of a transplant to demonstrate to Cristina that he wasn't as pigheaded and arrogant as he possibly appeared in her eyes at that moment. That thought had occurred to him after he cooled off. Why had she responded so aggressively to him? Because he hadn't just been professional when he'd broken up with her. He'd been downright cold. He needed to ease up a bit. He wanted to show her that he could listen to her. That he wasn't completely untouchable. But still, he was interim Chief, and needed to maintain what authority he could.

"That's not my call," he said, in relation to Bob. "But you know what is?" he raised his voice so all could hear him. "Everything else."

They needed to hear that. This was part of the burden of being Chief that Richard had tried to communicate to him. You were isolated. People would always complain and second guess your decisions, as much as others may support you, and look to you for guidance. But above all, you needed to maintain the appearance of order and control, even if you didn't always feel it. Because without that psychological support of structure, the surgical wing of the hospital would crumble. That was why there was a rigid hierarchy, from Chief, right down to the interns. So that the surgical wing was fully functional, never crippled, always at the top of its game. So as many lives as possible could be saved.

As he glanced at Cristina, her eyes full or something, he knew he had recently messed with this hierarchy. Looking at her filled him with the feeling that sometimes, the lines could be blurred. But his head was too full to work out how, and when. That was for another day's musing.

He concluded the day by making peace with Cristina. To his amusement, and admiration, she declared she would be fine, as long as she could scrub in. Perhaps she could maintain control better than he could. But nonetheless, they had made peace. He hoped this meant it would be back to business as usual.

If there was a small part of him that lamented this, he ruthlessly buried it.