A Season Four canon divergence- takes place right around 4.04. (Let's not even introduce Jillian #2, shall we?) New relationships/new distractions, but Rita cannot shake her feelings after the shooting.

Joshua Radin was my muse again- the inspiration for this fic is loosely based on his song, "Make It Easy."

Rita hates.

Hates the recurring nightmares. Hates the fact she's barely slept in months.

Hates that she came within millimeters of losing her best friend, forever.

Hates that when her eyes close, all she sees is blood. His blood. So much blood.

Hates that Chris is now head over fucking heels in love with the surgeon that saved his life.

Hates that she hates this for him when all he wants is to settle down and have a family.

Hates that she'll never be that person for him.

She's filled with hate, and she knows she isn't pleasant. She's self-loathing and self-deprecating and a lot of other-selves she'd rather not be right now. She knows this relationship with Eric isn't quite right, but it's something, it takes the edge off, and maybe, just maybe, she'll get a shot at a happily-ever-after. Even if it's with the wrong person and potentially not so happy.

She has no one to blame but herself because she broke Rule #1: she fell in love with her partner. Maybe in another time, another place, another universe, the stars may have aligned. She usually believes in destiny; after all, she's convinced that's what brought them together in the first place. But now she looks at the stars and sees them for what they are: beautiful points of light that will someday die, leaving the universe blank and dark.

The day Chris almost died was the day Rita stopped believing in destiny. The day her world went dark, only for her point of light to be brought back with frantic breaths and the hands of a stunning, skilled surgeon. If she left it up to destiny, he'd be dead.

Harry knows. She hasn't told him, but he knows. Sobbing in his arms that fateful night confirmed the wanderings of her mind and heart. He gently suggested therapy after, and she knows he's not far from demanding it. She's got to pull herself together. Everything feels scattered. Messy. Wrong.

Chris is oblivious, which is a blessing and a curse. She desperately craves some sort of acknowledgment, a conversation, a simple hug, even a fight, but he's been preoccupied and distant. He came back to work after their tête-à-tête, he saved her from a serial killer, they babysat a witness that turned out to be a cop (where they almost died, again), and their crazy world just keeps spinning. Routine, and yet nothing about it seems that way.

They've never been this mechanical before.

They're cordial. Polite. Almost too careful with one another. He doesn't seem to want to challenge her on anything, lets her take the lead, and doesn't ask too many hard questions about Eric. She's so grateful to have him alive that she doesn't want to press or push too deeply on his wounds beneath the surface.

Some wounds don't need any more pressure, or they'll never heal.

And she has a headache. She hates this the most.

They resurfaced before the shooting, the dull throb above her right temple that gradually becomes a roar- telltale signs of an angry blood vessel that has raged at her before, warning her of her fragility.

She went back to Dr. Mark Dennison— who's married with a two-year-old even though she never asked— and he ran some tests and gave her a new medication to try to alleviate the symptoms.

It's not working.

Rita doesn't want to analyze what this means for her present or future, but she knows she isn't the same person she was four years ago when she was first diagnosed. Back then, she was fearless and ballsy, in the honeymoon phase of her new promotion and partnership, eager to prove herself, swearing Chris to secrecy so she could be the same badass everyone expected her to be.

Four years later, she's changed. For the better, she thinks on most days. (Well, most days until the shooting occurred.) She's not all brash and bully, her edges have softened, and she's calmer, taking fewer risks. She's allowed herself to want things.

She allows the tears now, cries of frustration, remorse, and regret.

Pain.

Rita leaves work early when she isn't feeling well, something she would have scoffed at years ago. Chris hasn't noticed yet. She's been able to keep them under wraps with post-its on his desk, and fibs about her whereabouts in case he comes looking.

But this one is a doozy. It hit hard and fast while they were interrogating a suspect, and for the first time, she saw flashes of firecrackers in front of her right eye. Nausea hit next, and she barely made it to the bathroom before losing her lunch.

She hates her uncooperative brain that not only short-circuits but at the most inopportune moments. She feigned a stomach bug, Cap shooed her out of the precinct at lightning speed, and she carefully avoided Chris and carefully drove herself home.

She's on her couch, an ice pack on her throbbing temple, blindly staring at the files she brought home when she hears the familiar knock of her best friend. Shit. As much as she wants to hide it and shield him from her misery, she's weak and exhausted.

"Use your key, Chris." She hopes she's loud enough, her voice feels strangled and strange. She's relieved to hear the jingle of keys and the turn of the lock, and then he's behind her in an instant, scooting her into his familiar backward embrace. He throws the file aside, and she melts into his arms on the couch, a comfort she hadn't felt in weeks washing over her. She already feels better. They are quiet, no explanations are needed. He's seen the scattered remnants of her aneurysm before- the pill bottles, the bag of ice, the haphazard disarray of her apartment. She feels overwhelmingly safe and overwhelmingly guilty.

"Chris, I'm sorry."

"Shhhhh. Rest, Sammy. We'll talk later." As she drifts off, she hears him faintly whisper against her temple, "I'm sorry, too."


Rita slowly blinks, taking in her surroundings. At some point, he must have carried her to bed, because she's under her covers and feels like she's slept for the first time in months. His hand is entwined in hers, and now she understands why she slept so well– he's on top of the covers next to her. Her bedside lamp is on but the room is dark- it's not yet dawn. She turns and watches him sleep, a humorous glint in her eye. In the few times he has slept over, she always wakes first, and she loves it.

Loves listening to his even breathing — the calm in her ever-raging storm.

Loves watching the contours of his face at rest, his tousled, imperfect bed head, the measured rise and fall of his chest.

Loves having a chance to ogle his body. She has no shame- he's chiseled and gorgeous. She's had several fantasies based on their impromptu overnights, and she doesn't feel an ounce of guilt, significant others be damned.

Loves how comfortable he is in her space. How familiar it is to be together and just be.

Loves that he's sleeping and not unconscious.

Loves him. Is in love with him. But it feels good to love, regardless. This state of paradox is driving her mad, but he's alive and he's here, and she's grateful for what she can get.

She wriggles from his grasp to attempt to put some coffee on, but he instinctively pulls her closer and stirs. She worries that he momentarily thinks she's Jillian, but that melts away when he murmurs, "How's your head, Sam?"

Her lips curl into a smile. "Perfect, thanks to you." He slowly opens his eyes and she sees his lazy gaze fixate on her. He blinks a few times, but his stare stays steady. She desperately wants to keep this conversation light, but his furrowed brows won't allow it.

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

He gently runs a finger along her temple. "How long since they've been back?"

"Not long." She hears him snicker indignantly. "What?"

"With you, Sam, that could mean a week or a year. Want to narrow it down for me?"

"A few months. Just before…" She trails off, not wanting to mention the event that changed them irrevocably. He nods against her forehead, placing a light kiss on her hair, and she trembles with want. All of these gestures of love, the holding, the whispering, the touching, once so definitive of what made them whole, are splintering her into thousands of fragments. She tries to gently pull away again, to get out of this precarious position in her bed, but he has her in his grip with seemingly no intentions of releasing her anytime soon. Not without an interrogation first.

"Have you seen Sawbones?"

She chuckles at the name— he despised the guy simply because he diagnosed her with this dangerous condition. "Yeah. New pills. Not helping."

"Surgery?"

"Mmm… we'll see." She feels his grip tighten, the fear palpable in his touch, as if his hold on her could ward off the malady and cure her. Honestly, she felt like it might.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No. Still only you, Sam."

"I could have gone with you to the doctor, Rita. You don't have to go through this alone."

"Chris, I'm fine. It's been a crazy few months, and-"

"You're NOT fine, you're far from fine. I hate when you do that. Don't minimize your pain for my benefit."

She doesn't want to fight, and he seems to be picking one. He always does this when it comes to her health and safety. It's endearing and infuriating all at once. She pinches her nose in frustration. "Chris, stop. If I was worried I would have told you. Things have been…" She trails off, unsure of her motives.

"Things have been what? What, Rita?"

She moves out of his arms and sits up, facing him on the bed. "Complicated. Things have been complicated between us lately, don't you think?" He stares at her, blue eyes wide with shock and curiosity. "I mean, come on, Chris, does Jillian know you spent the night? And what would she think of this?" She gestures widely, a Vanna White arm displayed across the bed.

"It doesn't matter what she thinks. You come first."

She laughs, sarcastically. "Oh, and I'm sure she loves that. What happens when you marry her, Chris?"

"Marry her? Rita, I've been dating her for a couple of months. That's a stretch. Besides-"

"-Look, forget it, I'm sorry. Let me go put some coffee on."

"No."

"Well, I'm done talking." She stands up and he scrambles off of the bed and grabs her arm, spinning her around.

"Rita, stop. Please."

She wretches her arm from his grasp, but remains otherwise statuesque, inches from his mouth. "Oh, now you want to talk?" She feels the nervous, frenetic energy spilling out of her— all of the emotions she has kept at bay— and she's snapping. "You haven't wanted to talk about anything: the shooting, walking out on me, coming back, the fucking serial killer that almost took us out, our little babysitting adventure where we almost died in a shootout, or our current relationships. But now you want to talk."

"Rita,"

"No, you don't get to decide this, you don't get to waltz in here and-"

"And what? Worry about you? Care about you? The way you've done for me, that's not allowed? I know we haven't talked. I'm sorry. I know it's been hard for you, I didn't want to bring any of it up if you were trying to forget."

"I'm always trying to forget. If you haven't noticed, it doesn't work."

"I've noticed."

This stops Rita in her tracks. "You have?"

"Of course. I'm a detective, remember?" He gives her his softest smile, and she feels herself drowning in his proximity, his warmth. She wants to break the spell but she's transfixed by those damn blue eyes that she thought she'd never see again.

It's only now that she truly notices that he's shirtless. It's never been an issue- they're friends, after all, but now she looks down and finds his scars staring back at her, still rough and raw. Instinctually, she places her hand on his torso, gently peppering her fingertips over the jagged edges of patchwork skin. Bringing her forehead to his chest, she inhales. "I thought I lost you."

He pulls his arms around her in a gentle embrace. They've hugged a thousand times, but this is reverent, profound. They are cocooned in this newfound phase of their friendship, tainted with new traumas, a delicate dance of confession and comfort.

"I love you too, Sam."

She knows he means platonically, knows he means it the way he's meant it the dozens of times he's said it in their friendship. The kind of love he adds to her birthday cards, the occasional letter, or when they are simply sharing a moment of joy or grief. She knows this is one of those moments.

She wishes her heart kept up with her brain.

Leading with the fire in her belly and the anxiety she's held in for months, Rita cups his cheeks and quickly plants her lips on his. There's a momentary pause of shock as they both absorb the spontaneity of her actions, and then the race begins. Chris responds ferociously, pinning her to the wall, grabbing her hips, and hoisting her steady as she wraps them around his waist. His lips break from hers as he trails them down the side of her neck, nibbling her pulse point, running his fingers through her short tresses, and urgently tugging her closer to his tongue. She's holding on for dear life as he ravages her, electric currents of want pulsing through her veins, her heart, her thighs. She gasps and looks up at the ceiling, wishing for more than she could ever imagine.

"Chris, we have to stop."

He pulls away quickly and her legs uncoil from his waist. "Shit, do you have a headache?"

"No, I just… we can't do this."

"Why?" He says it with a mix of fervent passion and sheer confusion, and she laughs at how ridiculously comfortable he sounds about something they've never done before as themselves.

"Chris, I just kissed you."

"I know. He grins, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I kissed you back."

"But we can't-"

"-I broke up with Jillian."

"You what? Why? When?"

"I'm sorry. I just… I heard what you said in the hospital, and I've been obsessing over it for weeks. You looked petrified after you said it, so I gave you an out and pretended I didn't hear you. I tried moving on, tried giving you space to date Eric."

She's stunned, mouth agape, digesting his words. "You heard me…" is all she can whisper.

He grabs her hands in earnest, kissing her knuckles before bringing their joined fingers along the edges of her hips. "Rita, I've been in love with you since the day we met. I tucked it away, it mattered to me more to be your friend. Your best friend. Here for times like this, to be the person you trusted with your life. But you have to tell me what you want. Sam."

"What do you want me to say, Chris? A piece of me died that night, okay? I've never been more scared. And then I got you back and a whole different fear took over. I just can't lose you."

"Tell me what you want, Rita. I know how you feel, I know your heart. What do you want?" He encloses her space, backing her against the wall. "It's not complicated, it's easy. It's us. Stop running and be honest with me. Don't do what you did during The Soul Search- just tell me what you want."

Rita wants.

Wants to tell Chris that she's madly in love with him.

Wants his hands back on her skin, doing that thing that made her legs buckle and heart palpitate.

Wants to kiss him again until she's dizzy and breathless.

Wants to be vulnerable with him, and him alone. Wants him by her side while she navigates her health scare, somehow knowing already that maybe it was wrong to cast destiny aside so quickly.

Wants to marry him. Have children with him. Dreams of a future with him where they have it all.

In the split second that these thoughts rush through her mind, the one she lands on is, "I want you to stay. Stay, Chris. Please stay."

There will be time later to talk, to profess and confess their hearts to one another. For now, they let their bodies consume and command, forgive and forget, learn and love. They let their lips graze, hands wander, legs tangle, hips grind. They connect the way they were always meant to be.