Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The first thing he heard was the crack of gunfire.
The second was her voice, steady and low in his earpiece. "East stairwell. One suspect headed down."
The third—his own heartbeat, thudding faster than it had in months.
Chris Lorenzo moved through the rooftop with trained instinct, shoulders hunched against the wind sweeping off the bay. Palm trees swayed below like spectators to another shootout in paradise. His eyes tracked every shadow, every open door, every possible point of exit.
He hadn't seen Rita in six minutes. That was five too long.
"Lance?" he said, pressing a finger to his comm. "You copy?"
Silence.
He moved faster.
They'd come to the scene just like old times—two detectives chasing down a tip about stolen designer jewelry and a dead security guard. Simple. Routine. Except nothing had felt routine between them for a while now. And even though they worked together like muscle memory, everything underneath was different.
Rita was quieter now. Not the same firecracker who used to tease him at traffic lights or call him out on his fifth espresso of the day. These days, she barely looked him in the eye. And maybe he deserved that.
Maybe they both did.
Then he heard it—a crash. A scream. Gunfire again.
Chris broke into a run.
He rounded the corner just in time to see the tail end of a suspect disappearing down the back fire escape. Debris littered the rooftop—chunks of plaster, broken wood, shattered glass. And in the middle of it—
"Sam!"
The name ripped from his throat before he could stop it. And when he saw her lying there, motionless, one hand outstretched as if she'd tried to reach for her gun—everything inside him froze.
His knees hit the pavement hard. "Rita," he whispered, correcting himself. "Rita. Come on, baby, don't do this."
Blood trickled from her temple. Her chest rose and fell, too shallow for comfort.
He didn't notice the EMTs until one of them pulled him back. He stumbled as they loaded her onto the gurney. The only thing he could do was follow, his fingers shaking as they hovered over his radio.
It had been a long time since he'd called her Sam. And longer since he'd let himself remember why.
The hospital was all pale light and hushed footsteps.
Chris paced the corridor outside the trauma unit, counting the tiles on the floor, then the hours since they'd brought her in. He didn't sit. Couldn't. The waiting room felt too much like a funeral home, and he wasn't ready for that—not again.
"Chris," called a female voice, Brooklyn accent heavy. He turned to see Fran Lipschitz running to his side, with their captain steps behind her, facial expression somber.
Chris sighed, running his hand through his hair as she embraced him. "How is she?" she asked.
Chris returned her embrace wordlessly, glancing at the stoic expression on Cap's face.
"She hit her head hard, Fran. She hasn't regained consciousness yet. They said her Glass something was a 9…I have no idea what they mean," he replied helplessly.
Cap nodded slowly as Fran explained, "Glascow Coma Scale. It tests her neurological state and how well her brain is responding to her environment. A 9 isn't the worst-case scenario, but it does mean she has had some cerebral trauma… trauma to her brain," she trailed off softly.
"Oh, my God," Chris sobbed, shaking as Cap placed his arm across his shoulders.
"Hey, hey, come on, this is Rita we are talking about. Franny said it's not worse case scenario," he said, glaring at his wife over his glasses. "She's as tough as they come. She'll fight and get better."
Chris took a deep breath. "She's not as strong as she used to be, you know that Cap," he said, voice breaking. "She shouldn't have gone on that call with me, I knew it, you knew it- "
"She was damn insistent that it was time to return to the field, Lorenzo. No one could have stopped her. You know I did everything that I could to keep her at a desk- "
"Now, boys, this is enough! Neither of you are at fault here. Rita wouldn't stand for either of you blaming yourselves, so stop wallowing in self pity and focus your energy on what we can do to help her recover now," Fran argued. She stood up to her full 4'11 height as she scolded the two men before her. She geared up to resume her speech, but just then, a doctor finally approached, clipboard in hand.
"Are all of you here for Lt. Lance?" he inquired. They all nodded.
"I'm Dr. Wells," he stated. "I'm the neurologist on duty. Which one of you is her next of kin or emergency contact?"
Chris stepped foreward. "I am-Chris Lorenzo," he stated firmly, as the doctor checked his file. "Is-is she…?" he stopped before his mouth could form the words.
"She's a lucky one," he stated." When she came is her GCS was low and she was not as responsive as we would have liked. But we have her on some meds that are keeping the pressure in her head low, and she's critical but stable," the man said.
"She has a good concussion, but no hemorrhaging, and some deep lacerations. She also has a sprained wrist and some bruising where she fell, but no internal bleeding or any other signs of organ damage."
Chris let out a long exhale. "So, she's going to be ok?"
"Well, her GCS has improved since we started treatment, but she's not completely out of the woods. We're going to keep her in the neuro ICU overnight, keep her sedated, and see how she does, but if there are no other complications in the first 24 hours, I'm optimistic," he said.
"Thank God," Cap said, looking at the ceiling as Fran hugged both men, tears falling down her cheeks. Chris started to feel some life creep back into his limbs as he asked, "Can I see her?"
"Absolutely, but just remember, we have her on some morphine for the pain, and a sedative drip to keep her , we have her on a ventilator, but that's because we want to rest all of her systems so that her brain can focus on healing-it's not because she can't breathe. She won't be able to interact with you, but she can hear you. You can visit her for just a few minutes," he cautioned.
Chris nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. The Lipschitz' patted him on the back—soft, parental, like they knew even a reassuring touch might break him right now. He didn't speak. Just followed the doctor into the ICU, each step heavier than the last.
The room was dim, the kind of sterile calm that always felt louder than sirens. Machines beeped at steady intervals, cruel in their indifference. Rita lay still, IV lines trailing from one arm, a bruise blooming across her temple. Her face looked younger like this—peaceful, untouched by the events of the last year.
The doctor murmured something clinical and kind and then stepped out, leaving Chris alone in the doorway.
He took a moment. He needed a moment.
He forced himself forward.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice catching in his throat. "Rita."
There was no movement or sound other than the machines. He leaned over, kissing her softly on the forehead.
Everything came crashing down on him then, and he collapsed into the chair, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed.
And he was.
For everything.
Chris returned to the hospital an hour before the ICU's visiting hours began. He paced the waiting room until Dr. Wells entered and motioned for him to come down the hall.
"Lt. Lorenzo, I'm glad you came in early," he started. Chris held his palm up.
"Is Rita ok? I called right before I left my house and they said she had a quiet night, they said they took her off the vent a few hours ago and she was breathing fine," he interrupted.
The doctor chuckled. "Yes, I was told that you called four times-AFTER I spoke to you at two a.m. and reassured you that her vitals were looking strong. Please come into my office for a moment."
Chris followed the physician and sat in the indicated chair. His tone of voice didn't seem to indicate that something bad had happened, but why wasn't he allowing Chris to go to her side?
"So yes, we extubated her-took her off the vent-successfully and physiologically, she's made great improvements. I examined her along with some of my colleagues early this morning, and we're very optimistic that she'll make a full recovery. In fact, we are likely going to transfer her to a stepdown unit tomorrow if she remains stable. But- "he took a breath. "There is…one…complication."
"Complication?" Chris parroted.
"Lt. Lance appears to have retrograde amnesia. She's disoriented. Confused about the year. We're still assessing how far back the memory loss goes."
"Memory loss?" Chris could hardly form coherent sentences. He started to wonder which one of them had sustained the head injury.
"Yes, she knows who she is and that she was harmed in the line of duty. Her cognitive abilities are intact. She just thinks that we are a bit in the past."
Chris blinked. "How far?"
"She thinks it's 1993."
The air went out of his lungs.
1993. The year that everything changed.
As he processed this, Dr Wells was quick to add, "Now this isn't necessarily permamnent. After such an injury, retrograde amnesia isn't out of the ordinary. Once she recovers fully, she will likely regain the lost memories."
He nodded numbly. "Can I see her?"
"She's awake. Just… go slow."
She looked small in the bed. Pale. Her dark hair fanned out against the white pillow like ink spilled in water.
Chris stepped in quietly.
Rita turned her head, eyes slowly blinking open. "Lorenzo?"
It wasn't the name that gutted him—it was the tone. Light. Playful. Like she'd just walked into the squad room and caught him sneaking powdered donuts from the evidence fridge.
"You okay?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.
She winced. "Feels like someone dropped a building on me."
"You took a hit," he said. "Rooftop collapse."
"That explains the headache." She paused, frowning slightly. "Weren't we supposed to meet Hudson at the scene? Did he chicken out again?"
Chris's stomach twisted. "Hudson's… out of town right now."
Rita rolled her eyes. "Let me guess-he had to go to the mother in law's, right?"
Chris offered a faint smile and didn't answer.
Rita sighed, noting his pale face. "I guess I gave you a scare again, huh, Sam?"
Chris winced, then swallowed, hearing the shared moniker from her mouth for the first time in ages.
Mistakenly assuming that it was the accident that was causing the pained look on his face, she took the jovial tone out of her voice. "I'm sorry, Sam. My mind's a bit fuzzy right now-I don't know if the doctors told you- but I know whatever happened, you had my back during whatever went down. Don't blame yourself-it wasn't your fault," she said softly.
It wasn't your fault…wasn't your fault…there was nothing that could have prevented it…A voice from the past cut into his memory like a hacksaw.
Rita reached over and grabbed his left hand between hers, squeezing tightly. "Hey, "she whispered, lifting his hand to her lips, planting a soft kiss on his knuckles. "Whatever happened, I'm going to be ok," she reassured, rubbing his knuckles softly. Just then her thumb hit an obstacle. She stopped and glanced at his hand, a cold stillness running through her as her mind processed what she was touching.
"Chris…is this some new decoder ring trend or…are you… married?" she asked hesitantly.
He followed her gaze. The ring gleamed gold under fluorescent light. He took a deep breath,
"Rita…ah, yeah, yes, I am." He swallowed. "Listen, you know how you said the doctors said that your mind is a bit turned around?" he asked gently.
"Yeah, they said that I had lost some time, but I was thinking a few days or maybe weeks. Exactly how far off IS my head, Lorenzo?" she challenged.
Just then, the door opened again. A nurse came in, followed by the same doctor. "Good to see you awake, Lt. Lance. Let's take it easy. 1998's been a hell of a year so far."
Rita's eyes darted toward him.
"Did he say… 1998?"
Chris nodded slowly. "You've missed… a bit more than a few weeks."
Her gaze fell back to her hands, her face unreadable. "Yeah," she said softly. "I guess I have."
The medical team did a quick exam of Rita and pronounced that she would be transferred to stepdown that afternoon and discharged home the following day if all was well. They impressed upon her how lucky she was with the injury that she substained. After thanking them, they left, and she was alone with Chris again.
"So, I've missed five years." She stated rhetorically.
Chris nodded.
"What the hell happened?"
He hesitated. Dr. Wells had cautioned him to go slow and not try to overfill many gaps. "Well, we went to see a suspect at the Hilton Oceanfront and he gave chase. You followed him to the roof while I went in- "
"Not the case, Lorenzo!" she snapped. How could he possibly think she was interested in a damn case right now when she was missing five years of her life?!
She told herself to calm down. This had to be weird for him too.
"I mean…what's going on in my life? In your life? Our partnership?" Our friendship, she wanted to scream. "You've gotten MARRIED! That's a way bigger deal than some perp I was chasing! Tell me everything! Who's the lucky lady that finally got Christopher Lorenzo to settle down?" she teased.
He chuckled softly. "Eh, it's a long story, not that interesting."
"Oh, please, you can't hold out on me now! Obviously, you managed to win the roulette wheel of romance, partner. Looks like I haven't been as lucky," she countered, noting her own bare hand." So, tell me all-what's her name, where did you meet, how did you propose, was I in the wedding," she grinned.
"No, you've had plenty of luck, Rita. Trust me." Chris said. "Actually, my wife and I are…sort of separated at the moment. So, if you don't mind, I don't want to spend my short amount of visiting time talking about it."
Seeing Chris' face, she acquiesed, but tried a quick question. "I'm sorry to hear that Sam." Seeing him look away, she squeezed his hand. "Can I ask-do you want it to work out with her?"
He nodded, looking straight into her eyes. "More than anything," he stated huskily. "She's the love of my life."
Now Rita was feeling squeamish, for a reason she didn't want to examine. She pushed the sensation aside, scolding herself. Didn't she want him to be happy?
"Well, then we won't talk about it…right now," she added. "I hope for your sake that you work it out with…?" She raised her eyebrows questioningly at him.
Chris looked at the wall, then their joined hands, then at her. "Julia," he said.
Julia.
Her name was Julia.
Julia Lorenzo. Mrs. Christopher Lorenzo. Chris and Julia Lorenzo.
Rita stopped her mind from the path it was on. "I hope you and Julia work it out. She's very lucky to have you."
"I'm the lucky one," he replied.
Just then, the door swung open again.
"Rita!" a boisterous voice boomed.
In walked an older couple, about mid-fifties. The woman was short with red hair and a large smile, the kind that usually came with cookies or unsolicited advice. The man was taller, gruffer, with graying hair, tinted glasses, and a protective air about him.
Rita blinked, confused. Her brow furrowed in polite discomfort.
"Oh, honey…" the woman's voice softened, her smile faltering. "They said your memory was a bit off, but… you don't remember Heschy or me?"
Chris stepped in quickly, bridging the gap. "Rita, this is Captain Harry Lipschitz—our supervisor. And his wife, Fran. They're good friends of ours."
The couple exchanged a glance, concern flickering in the captain's eyes. Fran smiled tightly and reached out to touch Rita's arm.
"We've known each other a long time," she said gently. "No need to worry, sweetheart. You'll remember when you're ready."
Rita managed a small nod, her expression caught somewhere between apology and suspicion. "I… I'm sorry. I just…"
"It's okay," Captain Lipschitz said with uncharacteristic softness. "You've been through a lot. Just take your time."
The moment hung awkwardly before Fran's instinct kicked in. "Why don't Chris and I go grab you some ice chips, hmm?" she said brightly. "Bet your throat's drier than the Mojave."
Chris hesitated, then gave Rita's hand a light squeeze. "I'll be right back."
She nodded.
In the hallway, Chris exhaled slowly, tension leaking out of him as the door shut behind them. Fran looped her arm through his while Cap hung back, watching his detective carefully.
"You holding up?" she asked.
"Trying," Chris said. "She's okay physically, but… she thinks it's still 1993."
Fran winced. "Oh, Chris…"
"I had to tell her I'm married." He glanced at them both. "Said my wife's name is Julia."
The name landed between them with an invisible weight. Fran understood immediately. She always had.
Captain Lipschitz didn't flinch. Just gave a slow, knowing nod. "Makes sense. She always liked that name."
Chris gave a hollow laugh. "She said she hoped I'd work things out with her." His eyes burned suddenly. "She looked me in the face and said Julia was lucky to have me."
Fran reached for his hand, holding it tight. "She is lucky," she whispered.
"She doesn't even know…," Chris said. The words came out barely above a breath.
Cap stepped closer, placing a hand on Chris's shoulder.
"She'll find her way back," he said. "And when she does, you'll be right there waiting."
Chris nodded, jaw clenched, throat thick. He swallowed hard.
"You did the right thing," Fran said. "You give her space. Let her come back on her own time."
"Yeah." He glanced back at the door, voice quieter now. "If she comes back at all."
Captain Lipschitz stepped forward, gripping his shoulder in that firm, paternal way that always carried more weight than words.
"She's strong," he said. "And she's got you."
Chris gave a ghost of a smile. "Yeah. She always did."
He didn't wait for the ache to catch up to him. Just nodded and walked off down the hall, each step echoing like a door closing.
He didn't stay long after that.
In the parking garage, Chris pressed one hand to the car door, the other clenched tight around the ring on his finger.
She didn't remember…. But he did.
God help him, he remembered everything.