Chapter 10: Natural Selection, Part 2 (4.02) 9/19/94

Rita sat in the driver's seat, contemplating her next move. For the past two weeks she had run the gamut of emotions: worry over Chris' mental health and well-being, fear over his decision to quit the force, anger over him abandoning their friendship and partnership. And, underneath it all, elation and relief over the fact that he was alive to elicit these gut-wrenching feelings. They had one tender moment in the hospital when he first woke up, but since then things had spiraled out of control. A darkness had settled over his soul after the shooting. There was a tinge of contempt in his voice, an edge and wariness to their conversations. Rita desperately wanted to address it, to get Chris to open up about the shooting, but he made it clear that it was a closed case. He was moody and miserable dealing with the aftermath of Deborah's actions and didn't seem keen on rehashing the details leading up to the shooting. For a brief moment, a glimmer of the old Chris Lorenzo came back- the day Cap allowed him to accompany Rita to question a potential suspect. But that day turned to hell, which led to this moment in time.

She knew where he was from the beginning. Well, not quite. For the first 24 hours, she left him alone. For the two days after that she was a bit unnerved- he had never once ignored her calls, and when the Charger wasn't parked in front of his place, her mind went to horrific places. Cops and depression were not a good mix, and the minuscule irrational part of her soul was relieved that at least one of his guns was safely tucked away inside the Captain's desk. She remembered the long conversation they had after Brent's suicide, their whispered promises to each other that they would always talk things out and lean on each other during hard times, and realized she was being melodramatic. He was fine- he simply took his bruised ego and escaped to the beach. She stared at the cottage from the comfort of her car, collecting her thoughts and calming herself down. If she went at him like a raging lunatic, things would get ugly fast.

Chris told Rita about this place years ago, right after she met his mom and he spilled the story about his background. Anna had purchased this little place by the sea for when she came into town to visit her mother, Christopher's beloved Grandma Rose. Those visits were few and far between, and the place sat abandoned; when Rose passed away, Anna handed Chris the keys at her funeral. Chris didn't go there often- it reminded him too much of loss. Loss of a normal mother-son relationship, loss of his grandmother… he never wanted the beach to be a place of sadness, especially when it was his favorite place in the world to be when he was with Rita. She blushed remembering this conversation, one of the hundreds of intimate moments that defined their friendship. After those few days of panic, Rita let herself into Chris' apartment, did some investigating, and found the address on an old utility bill. She took a drive that evening and saw the beach house for the first time with her own eyes, along with the Charger parked out front. Relieved, she turned around and went back home. If he needed her, he would reach out.

However, Rita was going through her own share of turmoil. The Seaside Strangler case was the worst of her career. She was used to dealing with the press and high profile cases, but this was insane. Lipschitz was buckling under the pressure trying to run interference, and Rita was taking the heat from everyone because they weren't any closer to finding the killer. The last thing she needed was the directive to bring in Eric Russell, the ex-cop turned author who seemed to possess infinite wisdom about the killer's profile. She was stressed and exhausted, and she hated to admit it to herself, but she needed Chris. He was her partner and she wasn't going to let him walk away this easily. Luckily, Harry felt the same way and had no plans to turn in any resignation paperwork. But the clock was ticking. She knew what she needed to do.

She relinquished the comfort of her car and decided to walk around to the beachfront side of the property. Maybe she'd catch him outside and avoid the awkwardness of having to knock on the door. Knowing Chris, he was probably nursing a few beers already at the early hour, something he only did on vacation or when something was really bothering him. She made her way around and froze: there he was, napping in a chair. Her demeanor instantly softened, and she spent a few minutes staring at him from a distance. He looked good. Ragged, rough around the edges, unshaven jaw tightened in an innate scowl. Sexy as hell. She would never admit that to him, especially not now; not after the shooting when she realized several things about her feelings for him that she was feverishly trying to forget. What she was willing to admit to herself today was not only did she need her partner, but she desperately needed her best friend back. She hoped beyond hope that even a fraction of what they had was still salvageable. She missed him.

Watching Chris like this, all of the haunting memories of the past two months came rushing to the surface. The hatred for Deborah, the panic of Chris not moving, the agony and helplessness of the hospital waiting room, the overall heartbreak. Was it just two months ago that he was shot? Two months since she prayed more than she ever had in her life to a higher power to spare her Sam? Since Jillian innocently asked her if she was his wife? Ugh. Rita did her best to steady her breathing, suddenly realizing that she was on the verge of tears. Not again. Not now. This was no time for an emotional breakdown. Too much was at stake.

Rita advanced to the porch, stopping a few feet away to examine him closely. What was going on in that mind of his? It was a rhetorical question. Being a cop was more than just a job. It was a mindset, a loyalty and devotion to a field where you could die at any moment, but you soldier on and do your best to tip the scales of justice in your favor. And yet, he almost died for a reason that had nothing to do with the dangers of the job, and everything to do with Rita. At least, that's how she saw it. Deborah dated Chris a few times and it fizzled. Hearing Boo Maxwell's account of Deborah's mindset, how Rita, "stole the only man she ever loved," rocked Rita to her core. It was ridiculous and completely untrue, and yet… if this is what Deborah conjured up in her mind, she had to have reasons to believe this. Rita wondered if this is what Chris was thinking, why he didn't want to talk about the shooting. Honestly, at this point she didn't either. They would need to face some complicated truths about their friendship; the blurred lines between loving platonically and romantically. Rita was having a hard time discerning between the two since that night and knew she had to get a grip before any more fallouts could occur. The last one almost cost Chris his life and Rita her soul.

She also knew how devastated he was about the scene that went down the day he left his badge and gun on Lipschitz's desk and walked out of her life. A cop's pride and honor ride on the ability to protect fellow brothers and sisters: the thin blue line. She had heard about the showdown between Chris and Derek in the hospital waiting room when he thought Derek didn't do enough to protect Rita. Now he was beating himself up for those same reasons. She didn't see it the same way he did, but she had to admit that she let her guard down by letting him accompany her that day. He wasn't ready. Now here he was, stewing over two situations that he had no control over. Nothing was going to change the past. She had to bring him back to the present.

While her heart steered her to approach him with compassion and gentleness, that was dangerous territory right now. She needed to get her game face on. Even in his sleep, he looked ready for a fight; Rita had to be ready for anything. She had to be convincing, forceful, and determined. Time to throw off the gloves. She approached his slumbering form with conviction and leaned over him, seizing the opportunity to gain the upper hand.

"You've been working real hard on that tan, I can see."