c o n f i t e o r . ( s u i t e . f o r . t h e . u n f o r g i v e n )

Confiteor (Suite for the Unforgiven)
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Pembleton considers what he's done and what he's failed to do.

Timeline: Directly after the Movie

Notes: Thanks to Gail and Nifra for the superspeedy beta. The "Confiteor" is an act of contrition said during Mass. The lines in parentheses are direct quotes from The Movie. Written for Remix/Redux III: Reloaded. The original story is Complex by Rachel Wilder

Date: March 16, 2005

You left. You had to leave. You know that. The job was killing you, eating you alive from the inside out.

What you didn't know, couldn't see, was that it was eating away at him, too. Oh, you knew, you knew that even seven years on, the Adena Watson case still haunted him -- still haunts him. You even know why, now.

But this -- you never expected this.

You've always thought you were superior, better than the others. You looked at Kellerman and Lewis, the mess they made of the Mahoney case, of their partnership, remembered everything you'd done to make your partnership with Tim work. You thought, That'll never be me. That'll never be Tim.

And then you stood there and let him get shot.

That's when you knew. You blamed it on the stroke, said it made you slow, made you hesitate, but you never had it in you to shoot a man, to point a gun and pull the trigger and mean it. That's never what being a police was about for you, and watching Tim go down like that brought it home to you. The squad room, the street, the department -- you no longer had any place there. A cop who can't protect his partner isn't worth a damn to anyone, anywhere.

Mary was pleased, and you were relieved. You didn't have to go in and see their faces, know they were judging you for one second's indecision instead of remembering your ten years of service, the amount of red you changed to black over the years, your mastery of the Box.

And you didn't have to face the other things, the things about Tim that still make you uncomfortable, because you can take the boy out of church, but you can't ever take the Catholic church out of the boy, no matter how hard you try, and you've tried harder than most.

So you took the job at Loyola, loved it more than even you had thought possible. You're home for dinner every night now; you're around to watch your kids grow up and to make love to your wife whenever the mood strikes.

You didn't keep in touch, because you know how to walk away, how to cut the ties clean. You were relieved when Bayliss took his leave of absence, because it meant you could pretend you never knew him, never watched him take a bullet for you.

Never listened to him confess.

(Of course the line is clear. There's good, there's evil.)

He's asked you to save him.

(Did I take a bullet for you once? I take one for you, you take one for me. That's square business.)

He's asked you to grant him absolution, but you can't.

(It's not within my power. )

You drive home in a daze, trying to ignore the way your hands shake, trying to forget the look on Tim's face.

(I respect you, Frank, I love... you...)

Mary's crying when you walk in. You sink down onto the couch, too weary to stand, too weak to bear this cross.

"You did everything you could," she says, and you wish you could believe that.

"Everything? I didn't do a damn thing but leave."

"You were there when he needed you," she says, rubbing your shoulders, holding you close.

"But it was too late. Too damned late to save him. Save him. God. Why would he think I could save him?"

Mary is silent, giving you strength with her hands, with her body.

"How could he?" You turn to face her, can feel the tears burning in your eyes. "Did I really do this? Am I responsible?"

"You couldn't stop that bullet, Frank. You're only human, as much as you might think otherwise." She presses a kiss to your lips, rests her cheek against yours, and you realize she doesn't know, and you can't tell her. For the first time in years you want to confess, to share the weight of your burden. One last baring of your soul, to complete your devastation. The words come unbidden, Bless me, father, for I have sinned, but stop in your throat.

"This sin is not yours," she whispers, unknowingly echoing words you yourself once spoke.

But the absolution she offers is not hers to grant, and it is not yours to receive.

end

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Disclaimer: All Homicide: Life on the Street characters belong to Tom Fontana, Barry Levinson and Baltimore Pictures. This fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.