A/N for clarification, Sam didn't text anything back to McNally - he is busy shutting her out, but his thoughts betray his true feelings about the situation. Thank you to everyone who took the time to share your thoughts. I don't own any characters in this story. Also, this chapter has some religious undertones, I meant no harm or disrespect and no Catholics were hurt during production - I don't think anyway. Reminder: some rough language is used.
A few days after New Year's, Sam stood waiting by his front window for his ride to P.T. He felt like a kid again, and not in a good way, the memories of having to hitch rides to get anywhere still fresh in his mind. He'd hated having to rely on people that were often wholly unreliable – bought himself a car (even if it was a total piece of shit) as soon as he'd scraped together enough money when he was seventeen. Out of necessity, he'd also learned how to fix it and promised himself that one day, he would have a new car, hell, a truck even, that wouldn't need constant coaxing and maintenance to start every morning.
Fifteen years later, he finally got his wish when he bought his F-150 – special ordered it, made sure it was exactly what he wanted, every detail down to the tread on the tires. He loved that truck, or more what it represented, he guessed. For once in his life, Sam got something that was his – that was made for just him, something that he worked for and earned.
Except.
Except now it didn't seem to matter as much anymore. It had been sitting for almost four weeks, and according to the doctor, it would sit for another two at least. In fact, when Oliver suggested he maybe loan it out to someone who could take care of it, start it up every day, knew the brakes were touchy, and had to ask for rides from other people (eyebrows raised on the last with obvious meaning), he almost handed the keys over to Shaw to pass on to that someone.
But no.
He was done. He had sent her away. Relieved her of all the pain he caused her and was certain to cause her in the future. He sent her to be happy. With him.
Not Sam but Collins.
Now here he was, truck in his spot in the carport, unable to take care of himself, once again relying on someone else. He hated it. But then…
As much as it pained it to admit it, he did like his friends being around. Liked his house full of laughter and the bustling sounds of people actually giving a shit about what happened to him. It was humbling in a way. He had sold these people, these constants in his life, short. They were good and honest and true and …he loved them. He did. And he appreciated the effort it took to care about someone who was as big of a pain in the ass as he was.
The New Year's Eve poker party was a perfect example of how far they would go to keep him happy (and, Sam was fairly certain, make sure he didn't eat his gun to start off the new year right). This particular party had been the brainchild of Epstein. He planned the whole thing, even had a sign up sheet on what appetizers to bring. The only glitch was when Gail insisted she wanted to play too – a scenario that Dov was not going to let fly now that he was, finally, a part of the official man-clan.
"No way, Gail. Just because you've decided you're a switch hitter now, does NOT mean you get to play poker with the guys."
"Gee that's too bad Dov, I was just talking to Holly about how awesome you would be in a threesome."
"Really?!"
"No. Not really, man-boy. I like to actually enjoy sex."
Sam grinned in amusement. "Peck's in."
The night had definitely been the high point of what Sam called his life since he was shot. There were so many guys, (Peck was the only female with enough chutzpa to withstand the maleness of the event) they had three separate tables going – the whole main level of his townhouse converted into a casino. If half of both 15 and 27 Divisions weren't in attendance, he would have worried about being busted for illegal gambling.
He was so involved in the game, and the cigars, and the harassment of Diaz and Epstein, he (almost) forgot to look at his phone more than a dozen times as the midnight hour approached.
(He absolutely was not looking for a text from McNally).
When the countdown was over and beer bottles were still being clinked across the living room, Peck approached him with a predatory look. Sam saw her coming but before he had the chance to ask what the hell she was up to now, she was giving him a big wet kiss, much to the enjoyment of the other men present.
Amid the wolf whistles and catcalls, she pulled away and looked him straight in the eyes. Leaning forward, she whispered in the tone only a pretty drunk girl can manage with grace, "It's not from me, you big jackass."
Sam lost a lot of money while he was mulling over that particular gem. Went to bed with both his wallet and his heart lighter than when the night started...
Outside Diaz honked his horn, breaking him from his reverie. With a sigh, Sam headed out the door and began to mentally prepare himself for a fifteen-minute ride with the ever-affable Chris Diaz.
He had to hand it to the guy though. When Diaz's whole world caved in, he lost no time picking up the pieces of his old life, saving what was salvageable, and throwing away the rest.
Sam was envious of more than Diaz's ability to clip himself into a seatbelt without groaning in pain.
"Hey, Swarek, how ya feeling?" Chris asked him on the way home two hours later.
Sam sighed. "I'm fine, Diaz. As fine as a guy who got shot in the belly can be. My P.T. thought I was doing so well today, he had me doing stuff I'm pretty sure is banned by the Geneva Convention. I'm thinking he went to the Pol Pot School of Physical Therapy. "
Chris stared at him blankly. "I just meant maybe you could take care of an errand with me? I mean, if you're not too tired…"
"I'm good to go." Sam jumped at the chance to stay away from the empty house a bit longer, not even checking to see if the errand would bring him to 15 (and maybe hoping that it would).
When they pulled into the parking lot of a church in the crappy end of town, Sam looked at Diaz, eyebrow raised in an unspoken question.
"I help out a couple times a month. You know, with the outreach van. Father Jean-Pierre called me yesterday and asked if I could help today – their regular has the flu."
When Sam didn't jump right out of the Jeep, Chris began to back pedal a bit.
"If you want, you can stay here, you know, maybe take a nap if you're tired…"
That clinched it. Sam was not too tired to pour weak coffee into some Styrofoam cups. He opened to door and did his best imitation of a person who was not in extraordinary pain.
"Come on, Diaz, let's get going - crappy coffee awaits."
It turned out Sam was actually tired. Very tired and sore as hell, he only lasted 45 minutes in the cold before he found himself looking for a place to warm up and sit down for a minute. Sam sighed when he saw the only available option was the looming building in front of him. Bracing himself he pushed open the heavy door, hoping like hell the whole building wouldn't collapse when he passed through the archway.
The church was quiet, just like he remembered. The pungent smell of the incense that had been burned there since masses were said in Latin was still present in the wooden pews, a hint of a long since gone ritual. Sam slid into the back row, careful to not disturb the lone woman kneeling in front of a bank of candles.
The second time they were taken away from their mother, he and Sarah lived with a nice elderly lady for about a year and a half. She was a devout Catholic, went to church at least twice a week, something Sam had never known anyone to do before. (His old man's idea of evoking God was to call to his son, "Jesus Christ, can't you do anything fucking right?"). Lying in a tiny bedroom at the back of her little house, he would hear her praying at night –asking forgiveness for sins a twelve year old boy couldn't fathom an old lady could be guilty of.
Pieces of the prayer came back to him now, the message breaking through the fog of time and childhood understanding.
I have sinned through my own fault…
Well acquainted with things being his fault, Sam felt the weight of his guilt bearing down hard on his shoulders, the quiet of the church leaving nothing to distract him from his thoughts.
His own miserable private thoughts.
Through my fault...
a sister he couldn't save, even from herself, a mother he couldn't protect from a raging drunk.
through my fault…
a best friend bleeding out as Sam looked on, knees sticky with Jerry's blood and brain unable to wrap itself around the dying light in his eyes.
through my most grievous fault.
the disbelieving hurt in a girlfriend's (love of his life's) eyes as he, once again, broke them both into pieces with his inability to just let himself be happy.
Sitting with his head in his hands, Sam breathed in the enormity of the pain his heart had been forced to carry for what seemed like his entire life.
He sat and breathed. It seemed all he was capable of doing anymore.
After what may have been hours, or just minutes, he felt the presence of someone next to him and looked up to see that Father Jean-Pierre, the pastor of church, had slid into the pew next to him.
If Sam looked like he was in distress, the priest didn't let on. (Sam figured he had seen more than his fair share of distressed people in his day).
"You're the officer that was shot last month. My Women's Guild have been wondering how you are, if you enjoyed the casseroles."
Sam thought of the dozens of trays stacked in his freezer, each one its own culinary delight (cream of mushroom soup, tator tots, cream cheese) of heartburn and indigestion. He figured Oliver would eat them when he came over looking for an escape from the witch's healthy cuisine.
He gave the priest a weak smile. "Yes, I did. Please...please thank them for me." (Next time include some antacids, he wanted to add but didn't. Sam wasn't sure priests had a sense of humor - wasn't exactly part of the job description).
Both men sat in silence for awhile, the only sound the low undertone of the women praying to the row of dollar store candles.
Sam broke it first.
"You...I remember you from our case last year. You helped us bring in that dirtbag gangster - the one that burned kids." Sam also remembered it had come out that priest had fathered a son, and the boy didn't know it until his father tried to kill the man who attempted to initiate him by burning holes into his arm.
"Yes. And I remember you were one of the officers that helped me reconcile with my son, Thomas, and his mother."
Sam nodded, glad the elephant in the room was out in the open. "How is Thomas? How's he doing now?"
The other man sighed and Sam was startled to realize their wasn't much age difference between the two of them. The other man looked tired and haggard too - Sam guessed being a priest in a high crime area wasn't exactly a stress free job.
Father Jean-Pierre looked away. "My son… I had a hard time being there for him even after my sins were out in the open. Had a hard time facing the boy I had hurt with my absence. It took me awhile to get to a place where I could see him, could be a part of his life. I almost lost him again."
The priest stopped and looked at Sam.
"Of course, I finally realized I had to forgive myself first. Thomas had forgiven me, his mother had forgiven me, and of course God had forgiven me, but I couldn't get passed the pain I caused with my own fear. It was difficult - the hardest thing I've ever done - but it was worth it. His love was more than worth it."
Sam swallowed and looked down. Wondered if his own guilt was as big as the billboard he felt it was.
Father Jean-Pierre stood up and began to edge his way out of the pew. "Christopher was worried about you. I'll just let him know you're in here, resting your soul for awhile."
A few quiet footsteps later he was gone.
Forgive me for what I have done...
Sam sat in the silence of his aloneness, eyes stinging, heart expanding with each breath.
and what I have failed to do...
He sat and waited for the forgiveness to come.