Confession

Spoilers: The Movie

Classification: um, not slash—although it would fit in the whole Going Under universe.

Rating: PG13, mainly for language.

Summary: My take on what happened after the roof.

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Confession

by shell

copyright 2001

I follow Frank back into the squadroom. He turns to look at me, thinks for a moment, then gestures for me to precede him into the Box. I sit in the chair against the wall, next to the handcuffs. Frank doesn't say anything, just closes the blinds and stands there, facing them. I know he's trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to do next. Since I'd already come to the conclusion that telling Frank was the only thing I could figure out to do, I just wait. For the moment, I'm numb. I can handle that.

Finally, still facing the covered window, he speaks.

"I meant what I said, Tim. I can't absolve you."

"I know."

"I can't arrest you, either. I'm not a cop anymore."

He walks over to the table and sits down across from me. His eyes meet mine, full of sadness and confusion and worry. I close mine for a second, suddenly and completely exhausted. I don't know what to do. I can't go on like this—I meant what I said, too, about eating my gun—but I knew Frank was going to try to figure some way out of this. If nothing else, his pride was at stake—how could he have let me slip so far? How could he not have known this about his partner? Truth is, Frank never knew me as well as he thought he did, except at the very beginning of our partnership, when he knew me better than I knew myself.

"I can't arrest you, Tim," he repeats. "And even if I were still a police, your confession—you hadn't been arrested, hadn't been Mirandized, didn't have a lawyer present. And to confess to me, your friend—that's hearsay, if I testify to that."

Trust Frank to cut right to the practicalities of the situation.

"Okay, uh, I guess we have to get Lewis in here, then."

"Wait, Tim. Lewis—he's over across the street, probably toasting the two of us for bringing in Gee's shooter. Munch, Ballard, Stivers, Howard, they're all over there, probably wondering where we are. You want to ruin their celebration with this?"

I completely forgot about Gee. Self-absorbed Bayliss, that's me. Chris used to call me Detective Angst. I look up at Frank, open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

"I am not getting that punk Hall in here, so you can forget about that. No, this stays with us, Tim. For now," he amends as he sees my expression.

"Do you really want to do this, Tim? Make a formal confession, have Danvers offer you a plea? They don't have any evidence, do they?"

"Just the 44 in the back of his head. I tossed the gun. I was totally professional, didn't make any mistakes."

"And you haven't told anyone else."

"Who else would I tell, Frank?"

"You're not with that restaurant guy anymore?"

"I haven't been with Chris since before I got shot. Haven't been with anyone, really."

I'm shocked at the vulnerability in my voice. It's been so long since I'd let myself admit just how alone I've been for the last couple years. Since Frank left me in that hospital and never came back. Since I went through months of rehab and came back to a squadroom that was totally different and yet completely the same, but inhabited by strangers. Even the people I'd known and worked with for years were strangers. Or maybe I was the stranger.

"Tim, what is it you hope to accomplish with this whole drama? If you wanted to kill yourself, why would you do it this way? Do you think I don't know that if you end up in Jessup you'll be just as dead as if you eat your gun? They won't give you the death penalty—not with no evidence, with what you'd been through, with what this Ryland did—but a homicide cop in prison isn't going to last six months, and you know it."

I stare at him wearily. I'm so tired. "I didn't know what else to do," I finally manage to answer him.

"Oh, that's great, Tim, just great. Can't decide what to do, so you put it on me. Expect me to absolve you. I don't believe in absolution anymore, if I ever did—you *know* that, I just *told* you that the other day. Absolution is for priests."

He gets up again, paces around the room, then starts talking again.

"You still practicing Buddhism?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I couldn't be a good Buddhist and a good cop."

"That's bullshit, Tim. Protecting all sentient beings includes yourself, you know. Self-defense is protecting a sentient being."

"What the fuck are you asking me about Buddhism for? I told you, I'm not practicing anymore."

"Yeah, and I'm not a practicing Catholic anymore. Give me a break."

"Look, are we done here? It doesn't have to be Hall—isn't there someone else out there? Or I could come back tomorrow and talk to Lewis."

"No, Bayliss, we're not done. We're not done until I say we're done."

"Fine, Frank. Let me know when we're done."

We're staring at each other when there's a knock on the door. It's Judy, and she's crying, and we both know what she's going to say before she says it.

"Sorry to interrupt, Detectives, but I thought you'd want to know—the hospital just called. Lieutenant Giardello died."

"*Damnit*!" Frank swears, slamming his fist onto the table. I watch him do it, thinking it must have hurt. He's crying, his face in his hands, and I'm surprised to find tears running down my cheeks as well. I guess I'm not as numb as I thought I was. I stand up and go over to Frank, put my arms around him, and Frank Pembleton, who's not a hugger, he grabs on and holds tight, sobbing. I've only seen him cry like this once before, when Rausch died on that train platform, and it amazes me as much now as it did then that he trusts me enough to let me see him this way.

Being Frank, though, he's back under control in a minute. He pulls back a little, but keeps his hands on my shoulders, his forehead against mine like he did up on the roof just a little while ago.

"Tim—" his voice breaks. "You can't do this, Tim. You can't kill yourself, you hear me? No one else is dying. Not tonight. And if you confess, if we get Danvers or Lewis or someone in here and you confess, that's killing yourself, too, and I will not allow that. Not tonight, do you hear me?"

I nod, my tears flowing more freely now.

"What do I do now?" I ask him.

"I can't absolve you, but I know someone who might be able to. Will you talk to him?"

"What, go to confession, talk to a priest? I'm not Catholic, Frank."

"He won't care. He's a Jesuit, and he's a Buddhist. Come on."

We walk out of the box, and I watch as Frank gives my badge and my gun to the night shift lieutenant. I write Ryland's name in blue on the board, and Frank watches me, but no one else notices—they're too busy grieving for Gee. Then Frank and I walk out of the squadroom for the last time.

THE END

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