A/N: I know this is somewhat out of character since Roger's often a prick and all, but I just thought it'd be nice if he had some sort of reconciliation with help he used to depend on when he was little (In the coming chapters, you guys will see more of his colorful past). If I were dying and hiding what I really have from my friends, I'd go for it too. Hahaha. Thanks for the reviews! I'm keeping your suggestions in mind. :)

X.

February 25, 1991 – Make peace with The Man Upstairs. No chickening out, man.

The church still seemed big and scary even after all these years. Roger was the only one who was there that day and he immediately felt like he shrank the minute he walked in through the giant double doors. He blew on his fingers and rubbed them together, cold and tired from the long walk. He stopped when he saw the altar at the far end, adorned with paintings and statues of angels and saints, and kept his head down. He felt like he didn't belong in the place. He felt dirty and unwanted and sinful, with his unwashed jeans and old leather jacket, not to mention how many forbidden and immoral stuff he'd already done. In his mind's eye he could see the priest who'd run the Catholic elementary school he'd gone to shaking his head disapprovingly and, for once, Roger actually felt ashamed. Maybe this was a bad idea…

No. He had to do this. He wanted to, though he really couldn't explain why. He'd spent the past ten years of his life hiding from a God his mother and father had wanted him to believe in, but now he was tired of running. When he was a kid he'd sucked all of it up, the belief in the God who accepted him no matter who he was or what he did, even with all his shit, and it had felt good knowing it. He'd given up on the belief long ago, since religion was one of the things his father loved to rub his face in and because he no longer believed that the same God he'd come to love and trust was the same foreboding, evil God who constantly made his father hit him. If God was love, why couldn't God let his own father love him?

"Make the sign of the cross properly, Roger."

"Sit still, boy, and listen to the priest!"

"On your knees, now!"

The cross at the end was glowing an eerie yellow, like it was supernatural. It looked almost foreign, but he could remember times when his parents would make him kiss the foot of one in their home. He'd also had one on a necklace. He remember he'd torn it off of his neck after he ran away, shedding everything he knew and was in the past, to disappear into the cold, struggling world of bohemia.

Roger reached into his jeans pocket and fingered the same, small golden cross, cool to the touch. A coughrumbled up from his lungs, and he hacked it out. Then came another. And another. Each hack echoed throughout the whole empty church like some sort of monster groan and he felt a dull aching in his skull as he bent forward to try and expel whatever was in his lungs.

He didn't know if it was a sign if he was unwelcome or not, but damn it, he was going to do this. He'd realized a lot later in his miserable life that he now he craved for some sort of anchor, some sort of thing that he could hold on to when he was suffering, whenever he thought he was dying. He'd remembered the religion he was born in, how, when presented to him by his mother, was the most fucking wonderful thing he as a kid could believe in. With her telling of angel stories and parables and stuff...it had given him comfort and relief in his later years the moment he remembered, despite the pain, despite the fucking virus that was killing him and Mimi. Fuck his father. His mother was a gem. She was the one who had seated him on her lap with a kids' Bible in hand, with all the pictures and things of angels and animals.

"Whenever you're sick or alone or angry or lonely, just pray to Him, baby, and He'll help you through..." she'd always told him. He'd eaten it all up, of course, until he was about twelve or so and started to see the same religion in the hands of his father.

Now, he was sick and angry and lonely, and he knew he needed to talk to someone who could understand. Who he knew knew him better than he did. He smiled bitterly as his chest burned, half in disbelief that he was even speculating on thinking of such things, but there was no turning back. He had so many things to say, stuff he wanted to say sorry for, stuff he'd never tell Mark or Mimi or anyone and which he knew he had to spill before he went insane, stuff he wanted to say that he didn't want judgement for that only his childhood God could understand…

Shit, Mark would probably enjoy filming this. The return of the prodigal son, he knew that story in the Bible was called. Good thing Mark was away at work.

Roger lit three candles for him, Angel and Mimi. Then after a second thought lit five more for the rest them, including the ass, Benny. Hell, they all needed prayers. If not from him then at least for the other people who were more on the Big Man's side than he was.

He sat down on the last pew, far away from the altar, but at least still inside the church. He'd thought he was going to melt once he entered the place. He felt it actually still,as if his skin was peeling itself from his body,but he guessed it was just guilt. There were so many things he'd done...how could he even start to say how sorry he was? Was he going to beg now? Fuck, he couldn't even begin to describe how he felt. Sort of stupid (he guessed it was his stubborn side making itself known) but at the same time deeply, deeply apologetic. He'd never told Mimi or Angel that he was Catholic, though both were also born into the religion. Only Mark knew for sure, and Roger had no intentions of changing the situation.

Oh God…

For a long time, he just sat there, embracing the overwhelming silence and the fact that he'd had the guts to enter a church after all this time. He couldn't move. He didn't know if he was too scared or too self-conscious or whatever. Fuck, how could you pray properly anyway when it's the first time in ten years? Fuck, he'd better stop swearing…oh shit he did it again…

GAH. He willed his mind to just shut up.

Roger squirmed in his seat, rubbing his arms feeling cold again. Last night had been a pain. He'd woken up, catching his breath and with a fever. He practically had to escape that day just to get there since he was still running a temperature. Mimi had fussed over him but he'd waved it off, telling her it was another nonsense thing so she wouldn't worry. But hell, it scared him. Losing his breath in the middle of the night? Fuck. It made him wonder how much time he really had. What if one day he just stopped breathing in his sleep altogether? God, poor Mimi…

It was mostly that incident which prompted him to do this certain item on his list even though it was supposedly number 8 and he'd expected to do it at a much later time. Like, last, or something. But he guessed that today was really the right moment for it.

He went into a coughing fit again and he fought to keep it at a lower volume, even though there was no one else inside with him. It just wasn't right to come crawling for forgiveness than hacking an organ out on sacred ground.

Angel, if you're there, help me out here, buddy…

Once the spell was finished and Roger was only left with his headache, he closed his eyes and just let his mind wander. He saw Angel's face, then Collins', even Benny's, his ex-bandmates, the guy whom he used to buy crack from, Mimi, Mark, Joanne, Maureen. He saw April's face, his mother's, his father's…all the shit he'd pulled, all the wrongs he never corrected, all the wrongs he could never correct…

Without meaning to, his hands suddenly clasped together and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"I know it's been a long time...and I probably don't deserve to be listened to…but...just give me a minute to say something…if you can…please…"

The dull silence echoed in his mind, what he'd always heard whenever he attempted to question God and consequently disowned the thought over and over again for the last 10 years. He didn't care. He kept on talking in his head.

"I've never been one of your favorites...I know I've been a shitty little ass ever since...I've done a lot of stupid things too...but...I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

He paused, realizing everything he'd just said was already a prayer in itself. He almost laughed at himself: him, Roger Davis, praying. It wasn't something he thought he'd do again. But now there he was, almost on his knees, begging to a God to forgive him.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm sorry for April, for influencing so many people. I deserve to die, I know...I'm sorry for making Mark miserable...I know anything I'll do now will be nothing compared to what he's done for me...God, I miss Angel. She was a good kid. You've met Angel, haven't you? Yeah, isn't she great? We all miss her down here…Oh God, I'm scared...I'm so f---..."

He sniffed, feeling tears slide down his cheeks, but he didn't bother wiping them. This was it. The Roger Davis no one but himself saw, the Roger Davis that cried, that admitted he was afraid, that admitted he was vulnerable and needed help, was starting to show. Roger let himself, for the first time in how long,cry, wishing he could take things, decisions back, wishing he could have thought over thingsa little bit longer before he did them. His sobs were soft and in his ears he felt like a kid again, all alone and lost in a big scary world, not understanding how he'd gotten to where he was and not knowing how he was going to get back.

"I need you...Please don't leave me to deal with this by myself...I can't do it...I just can't..."

He felt a light breeze blow in from the outside and it brushed the side of his face. He imagined it was actually Angel so he didn't feel so alone. He composed himself and managed to lift his head to look at the altar, at the crucifix at the end of the hall. He let the last of his prayer be said in his mind.

You're the only one who really knows what's wrong with me. None of the others know, hell, I don't even really know for myself. I haven't told them about what I just found out...this fucking...sorry...pneumonia, and I don't plan to…they're so happy now…I don't want them to forget about their lives and spend it taking care of me. I mean, they've got their own things too. You know when I'm going to die, and I accept it...but please, I'm begging you…when either you or the Man Down Under takes me away, please...help my friends out. I'm scared for me, but I'm scared for them too. I'm scared for Mark and Collins and Mo and Joanne, and Mimi…I know I've been a lucky son of a bitch all my life even though I don't deserve it, but...just one last favor, God, please…

Once more there was silence in his mind, but it wasn't as empty as before. In fact, it was quite hopeful, which surprised Roger. Weird how religion worked. It actually did good to a person's psyche. He no longer felt as pressured or as trapped or as alone anymore. Rather, he felt like he'd just surfaced after being underwater for so long. Did the Big Guy take him back again?

I'll be a better person by the end of all this, I promise. Thanks for listening.

Out of habit, he crossed himself and stood up carefully, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He suddenly felt much, much lighter. Roger smiled to himself as he got rid of his tears, proud of what he'd done, before he left the church.