I swore I wouldn't touch this episode.

Some amazing people have already written about it, and I said I'd never do it justice compared to their brilliance. But something has been bothering me more and more over the years, and on a recent rewatch, I couldn't ignore it anymore. So here I am.

The thing that bothers me? When Chris arrives at Rita's, Cap lets him through and says he's not supposed to be there. Chris responds, "Yeah, I know. I got your message, I'm cool."

A MESSAGE? Lipschitz left the news of Rita's potential death as a message?!

I'm sure we could hypothesize this several ways- perhaps Harry spoke to him at first and then, as an afterthought, left him a message to stay home. Who knows? But the whole thing just seemed weird. So, here's my take.

(By the way, this is one of many issues I have with this episode, but I'll die on this hill first. Don't get me wrong, it's one of my favorites in many ways, but the storyline and continuity… sheesh.)

Also, this started with me addressing the message and ended up… yeah. I can't help myself.

The hiss of the twisting bottle cap echoed throughout the loft, the first sound emanating throughout the space in over an hour. Chris tossed it aside and took a long pull from the bottle, letting the crisp amber liquid cascade down his throat in hearty gulps. He needed this reprieve, something to dull the intensity of the emotions that brought him to hell and back over the past 24 hours.

Rita is alive. Rita is alive.

Sheer relief thrummed through his exhausted limbs, heavy from the adrenaline crash that inevitably arrived once she was safe in his bed.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

A few hours ago, this mantra was devastatingly doubtful: a naive, last-ditch effort at hope. A greedy, begging, headstrong denial of the facts lay bare at his feet.

They defied the odds once again.

Everything about what had transpired was surreal, starting with the message—a message he still can't bring himself to erase from his answering machine.

He had just gotten home from Miami after a grueling week of trial prep, and, after a shower and a beer, crashed hard in his bed. He didn't hear the phone until the answering machine's beep, Cap's distant voice echoing throughout the loft. By the time he realized he wasn't dreaming, the call ended.

Chris stumbled to the machine and pressed play, shaking away his slumber, preparing to ride point on a new case with Rita still out of town.

That's not what he heard.

A homicide. Rita's apartment. Female with gunshot wounds to the face. Unrecognizable. "Don't come here. That's an order."

Don't come here.

He had played the message back three more times while frantically looking up the number for her motel in Sanibel. He remembered how anxious he was, how awake he became, how it was all wrong. She had to be in Sanibel. It had to be a mistake. Fear clawed through his chest as he spoke to the desk clerk, learning she had checked out the morning before.

Cap's voice was strained in the message, hoarse already, whether from crying or barking out orders or both. Chris could hear the devastation hidden beneath his authoritative tone, but he did what a good leader does and took control. Chris, on the other hand, paced, vomited, paced again, and then slipped into the routine of his life and got dressed, determined to get there— to get to her. He couldn't sit still while forensics poured over her place, direct orders or not.

Hutch would have called him relentlessly until he answered. He would have sent someone over. Chris would have hated it, a couple of rookies coming over to tell him his partner was presumed dead, but it was better than the machine picking up Lipschitz's voice. The protocol and routine of it all, as if it were any other case, other than ordering him away, demanding he stay home.

However, Chris couldn't fault him for it- he's a captain and behaved like a captain, putting the crime scene first, his management impeccable, preserving every square inch of salvageable evidence so they could get the fucker who did it. For this, he was grateful. And Harry was right: his presence was a distraction, even for the few minutes he barged in there, demanding he could help. The fact that Diana was there because she had to be was devastating enough; the pair unable to look in each other's direction for fear one of them would break into a zillion pieces.

He didn't want to admit his manic need to look at the body. Cap refused, again following protocol, but Chris knew he could take one look and know. He needed that closure, one way or another. He wasn't sure how he would explain to Lipschitz that he'd mapped the freckle pattern on her left shoulder, that he knew where her intimate scars were from the two times she'd been shot. Looking back, they could have ruled out a whole lot of heartbreak if he was allowed to see the body, but rules were rules.

After grueling hours of reviewing evidence and old cases, fingerprints, and lack thereof, Harry softened, the hurt and pain visible in his features as the long day turned into twilight. He walked Chris out of the bullpen, insisting he go home and get some rest. Prepare for the delayed fingerprint match, and that would be it.

Prepare.

Instead, he used his key and let himself into Rita's apartment. If it were true, if he needed to prepare, he needed to be there, with her pictures, clothes and trinkets, to feed her fish and feel her presence. To grab onto a shred of normalcy in the most abnormal situation he'd ever faced without her.

He took in his surroundings, the dozens of times he had been there: dinners, breakfasts, movies, nightcaps, a few sleepovers after close calls, nightmares, a little too much to drink. He thought of all his things at her place that had accumulated over the years and wondered about Cap's reaction when he combed through the evidence report. His Michigan sweatshirt, his cologne, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom drawer: all things that could belong to a lover, but the fingerprints were his.

Chris was holding a picture of them, trying not to fall apart and give in to the maddening truth that she was dead when he heard a key jiggle in the lock. In the darkness with his gun drawn as the door swung open, he saw a shadow, a silhouette. Before she even flipped the light on, he knew it was her.

He froze, the angelic vision in front of him warring with the conjured images of a tattered body sealed away at the morgue. Rita's innocent greeting of a simple hello threw his body into autopilot, launching three giant strides in her direction and scooping her into his arms. Rita was confused but didn't flinch- she never did when it came to his affections- and let him spin her round and round.

Alive, alive, alive. It was implausible, yet she was in his arms, tangible and sacred.

After explanations, phone calls, speculations, and countless hugs, they came to the loft for the night. Rita was exhausted upon arrival, dizzy with worry and confusion, grief and relief, and Chris all but ordered her to bed. He'd been a little lost ever since. Somewhere in the haze of these memories he'd finished the bottle, its label now disintegrating into flaked pieces on his countertop. He was fidgety, restless, still stuck between bliss and misery.

He had been so close to losing her.

He tiptoed upstairs, peeking in on her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Alive. Warm and beautiful and real. Alive. He wanted to touch her so badly, feel the gentle throbbing of her pulse point underneath his fingertips. He ached with the need to hold her, fervently and forever, but he was a statue, afraid to blink for fear that it was all a fever dream and he lost her after all.

"You gonna stare at me all night, or you gonna climb in?" Rita mumbled, one drowsy eye fixed on his protective form standing at the base of the stairs.

He shrugged sheepishly, caught in the act. "Sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You didn't. C'mere, Sam." Rita lifted the bedspread with fanfare, sweeping it open and beckoning him to join her.

Chris hesitated. It wouldn't be the first time they shared a bed, but he was so wrecked from the tumultuous day. He didn'twant to put his need to protect her over her need for rest, petrified of the tears he may not be able to keep held in once he held her close.

Rita sensed his apprehension, pulling back the covers even more, revealing his t-shirt skirting her thighs, the edges of her cotton shorts peeking underneath the worn fabric. "Please? I could use a Lorenzo hug if you're willing."

That did it- he would never deny her comfort for his dignity. "Always, Sam." He scooted into the spot she'd opened for him, and he lay on his back while she curled into his open arm sprawled across the pillow. He gripped her tightly as she relaxed into his embrace. They were quiet as he brushed the fingers of his free hand over her wrist, not-so-subtly landing on the rhythmic pitter-patter of her arteries dancing underneath.

"I'm not a ghost, Chris."

He chuckled, linking his hand with hers. "So many people thought I was crazy today that I started believing them. A woman murdered in your apartment that resembled you- and I refused to believe it."

Rita nodded into his neck and gripped him tighter, draping a leg over his, entwining them. This was a dangerous dance, a tug of war between friendship and more, but he knew that neither one cared to dissect that tonight. Just a week ago, they were undercover at Pike's strip club, oh-so-carefully blurring lines and testing boundaries. They were no strangers to intimacy yet this might be the most vulnerable he's ever been, because now he's seen a life without her.

Chris could probably kiss her right now, and she'd respond in kind; finally crossing that ridiculous line they'd drawn in the sand long ago, principles and pedestals be damned. Tell her that he flat out lied during that hour-long Soul Kiss and that he was in love with her, that he wasn't afraid of the consequences anymore because he couldn't find a single reason that made sense to deny themselves of this happiness. Tell her that a dead body in your partner's apartment makes life look pretty crystal clear, and he doesn't want to waste precious time.

He kissed the top of her head instead.

"Big day tomorrow, coming back from the dead. Get some rest, Sammy."

Rita responded with a faint, contented moan, already drifting off now that she settled into his embrace. He felt his eyes burning with each blink and finally closed them, succumbing to the sleep that had eluded him until now.

Before sleep took over he had one final, conscious thought, and if he didn't know any better, it seemed to float through him like a whisper from the woman blanketing his body, alive, alive, alive.

I love you.