Episode 1.2: "Going to Babylon" (11/14/91)
No one knew.
It had been so easy for Rita to hide her catastrophic past. Changing her last name afforded her an escape from the gossip of Palm Beach; she faded into the obscurity of the middle class, away from the pitying eyes and careless whispers accompanying a name like Fontana in the social circles of the wealthy and bored and powerful. It gave her anonymity in a town known for its old money and even older scandals. She could hide from the pain and pretend that her upbringing was sunny and normal. Someone else's life.
And then Harlan Cameron resurrected her father's ghost, and her carefully crafted identity crumbled to dust.
It's funny how trauma works. For years, she'd been able to ignore dormant emotions, deflect difficult conversations, pretend that Tom and Sue Lance were her real parents, and bury the snapshots of her wrecked childhood.
Harlan Cameron.
That name ruins her and sends her back twenty years, a scared little girl in a bathroom laced with the acrid aroma of gunpowder, learning a sick lesson about what a brain looks like leaking from a body.
She's a loose cannon, out for revenge, angry, ferocious, and heartbroken.
And Chris doesn't have a clue.
As his partner, she has to tell him; there's no way she can remain impartial about this case. As his best friend, she wants to tell him, because, for the first time, she aches for someone to truly know her. She needs comfort and validation, and fuck- if she's going to be vulnerable with anyone, his arms are the ones she wants around her if she cries. When she confessed to him about the aneurysm, she felt like somebody's something for the first time since she was seven. She let her walls crack as her tears fell, Chris's unwavering embrace absorbing her darkness and fears.
Rita''s always been skilled at compartmentalizing her inner demons, tucking pieces of herself into little hidden pockets, giving a proverbial middle finger to grief. However, she's still in her work clothes, pacing her apartment like a caged animal, alternating between seething anger and overwhelming sadness. She's juggling her repressed childhood memories, the picture of the aged Harlan Cameron she viewed in their case file before leaving the bullpen, and a dull headache gnawing at her right temple, and she's at a breaking point.
Her fingers dial his number reflexively, without hesitation.
"Chris, I need to talk."
"You okay?"
"No, I need help."
He was at her place within minutes, and while she was revved up and antsy before calling him, knowing he was on his way gave her the measure of peace she desperately needed to curb the adrenaline rush. But now she's weary, an exhausted stupor settling into her bones. Her story is long and emotional, and now she's not sure she's ready to face his expectant, curious gaze.
She had already told him to use his key that was now jingling in the deadbolt, and she was fumbling through the motions of putting on a pot of coffee when he gingerly stepped behind her.
"Here, let me."
He takes the coffee pot from her trembling fingers and places it back into its cradle. She leans into him, and he wraps himself around her, hugging her from behind with his chin on her shoulder, shushing a quiet, soothing rhythm. His voice, his presence, relaxes her effortlessly.
"Chris… thank you."
His warm lips graze her neck before dusting her left ear, "For what?"
There's so much she wants to say, but the lump in her throat deceives her. For getting up at 3 am. For racing here without question. For holding me like this. For caring about me in ways I'll never get used to. She wipes a stubborn tear from her cheek and tries to recover, a huff of a strangled laugh breaking the silence surrounding them.
"Hey, come here." He gently turns her around to face him, and she wants to resist because she can't look into his eyes. She keeps them trained on the floor as his hands grip hers.
"Sammy, you're scaring me. What's going on?"
"I have something to tell you, but I just can't do it right now."
"Okay. Just, are you hurt? Is it your head?"
She squeezes his fingers, desperate for him to stop the onslaught of worry. God, he's so sweet, and in the light of day, she'd kill him for this kid-glove treatment. But she'd probably do the same thing in the frantic fray of lost sleep and a panicky, late-night phone call from her partner.
"No, nothing like that. I promise. Will you take a ride with me in the morning? I want to show you something."
"Of course. What can I do in the meantime to help?"
"Will you… Could you just…"
He pulls her to him then, warm and safe and home. Rita's never been one to turn to liquid at a man's touch, but Chris has become the exception to every rule she carefully curated in her life. She melts into his embrace, allowing herself a moment of comfort- a moment to forget the ghosts lurking in the shadows of her life.
He nods toward the living room. "Go get comfortable, find a good movie. I'll bring the coffee in."
"Thanks, Sam."
She meets his eyes then, and for a fleeting moment, she wants to cast aside the shaky yet steadfast pact they formed to protect their friendship and partnership. She knows that no other man will ever love her this fiercely. She knows that she will never trust anyone this inherently.
Which is why it can never happen.
She quells the fire in her belly with a kiss to his cheek instead, sticking to the solid and familiar before venturing to the couch. Chris is adjacent to her moments later, armed with two cups of coffee and a plate of muffins that magically appeared on her counter when he walked in. She finds an old black and white film, not one they are too familiar with, but it's background filler anyway.
He thumbs her hair, fingers falling on the elastic that's keeping it pulled away from her face, and waits for her nod of permission before he slowly removes it, letting her hair cascade into loose curls around her shoulders. She didn't realize how tense her scalp felt until his hands continued their tender journey through her messy waves, stifling a moan that she knew would sound pornographic. As he massages her aching scalp and traces featherlight patterns down her neck and across her shoulders, she realizes that this is the most intimate thing a man has ever done for her (or that she's ever let a man do for her). She instinctively places her hand on his knee and gives a squeeze of gratitude, and keeps it there as he continues his delicate ministrations.
She doesn't mean to, but the yawn that escapes her is ridiculously dramatic, and Chris chuckles as she shakes her head in quasi-embarrassment.
"Lay back, sleepyhead. Try to get some rest."
She relents, eyes drifting shut, cozy and comfortable in his arms.
It takes a lot to stun Chris into silence.
As they drive together to the station after leaving Rita's childhood home, he carefully steals sidelong glances at her, marveling at her strength, wondering what else the universe could throw at this amazing person.
She has her dark sunglasses on, camouflaging her smudged mascara, flipping through her notes on the Cameron case with a vengeance that shadows her tear-stained cheeks. Occasionally he notices a pause, her face drifting towards the window, stifling a sigh or tremble, and his heart breaks for her again. But he stays silent because he doesn't want to say or do anything to make her feel like a victim- like that petrified seven-year-old still trapped within her heart. She'd hate him for that.
Rita's story was horrific. He had no clue what would tumble from her mouth after he teased her about losing her application to Vassar. He's replaying every time he's mocked Palm Beach princesses hiding behind daddy's money and mommy's plastic surgeons.
He feels like an asshole.
Not that he could ever see Rita as the vapid and materialistic stereotype they so often interacted with in their line of work. She only spoke of her father for a few minutes today, and he could tell that Donald Fontana was one of the good ones- charitable and benevolent- someone that would donate a wing to a hospital or fund their PBA initiatives and not just do it for the accolades or tax write-offs. He bet he could trace several of these transactions to prove this hypothesis, but he doesn't need to.
Rita's reverence was enough.
His eyes drift her way again. His headstrong, determined, ball buster of a partner now looks so incredibly small, fragile, and breakable. Someone who loves so fiercely, seeks justice so passionately, and now he understands why.
She's lived through relentless trauma. An orphan. Homeless. Alone. Scared.
She's only admitted her fears to him twice.
The first time, just weeks ago, sobbing into his chest after the unbelievable results of a brain scan she thought was pointless and unnecessary. Now, sharing her history: her fractured childhood, her father's suicide, and her hatred of their suspect: the man responsible for the demise of her family.
If anyone were to investigate their friendship and look into its core, they might say it was superficial, skin deep. This conversation was a reminder that as much as they are connected, as much as they have bonded over the job, shared interests, and mutual trust (not to mention their simmering attraction), there are many conversations they haven't had yet.
There's a part of this revelation that upsets him, makes him worry and wonder what else she's keeping closer to her heart than he is.
However, he hasn't told her about his past yet, so there's that. And that alone teaches him that the past doesn't matter as much as the here and now. Their traumas have somehow fused them, a pair of moths drifting towards the light within each other.
"Chris, don't." Her voice startles him from his deep thoughts and autopilot drive, and he almost jerks the wheel before quickly regaining his composure.
"Don't what?"
"Don't overthink it, okay? I'm fine."
He nods. He knows it's not true, she's not fine, but she's as good as she can be, and she needs to compartmentalize to devote herself to the investigation. This means he needs to follow suit, but he can't help himself as he reaches over and grabs her hand.
She doesn't pull back, and he's grateful that she lets him in, lets him have this piece of her, the piece that's rough, misshapen, and raw. Their handhold is simple- she's still combing through notes with her other hand and slipping back into work mode- but their fingers are laced, buzzing with comfort and solidarity. He'll be her backbone if she falters. He'll lead if she needs to follow. He won't let her drown in a sea of dark memories. She has him.
They have each other.
The privilege, the honor of knowing the depths of her is something he will never take for granted. Other than a wayward foster brother she's seen a handful of times since her teenage years, Chris is the first person she's confided in about her past. She asks him to keep her secrets for now, which he'll take to his grave if she wants, devotedly adding this to his Rolodex catalog of sacred things about Rita Lee Lance.
Correction: Fontana-Lance.
Now he knows.