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Chapter Text

the late holy father

There is something special about Cardinal Vincent Benítez.

The Holy Father has known this from the first encounter he had with him, and he knew it still at the last. The person that had risen from missionary upwards at a meteoric pace— the monsignor, the archbishop, the prodigy, the vessel, the one— seemed, to the Holy Father, to be the best that the faith had to offer, a shining example of all that is right with the Church and where it is moving forward to.

Watching that same person kneel at his feet, dark head bowed and lithe hands clasped, and begin to rapidly beg forgiveness in a cacophonous mix of Spanish, Latin, and Italian, he had felt overcome.

Now, as he did the first time they met, he attributes this feeling to the Holy Spirit moving through him, guiding his hand.

It was as if Benítez had been made perfectly in the Holy Father’s image of what a man of God ought to be. His humility, his strength of will, his dedication to service, his asceticism, his empathy— he is just as the Holy Father would see all his cardinals strive to be. The humble, resilient soul that begged forgiveness and absolution from the Holy Father is the last person he could think of that would need it.

As far as the future of the Church goes, Benítez has always been exemplary. Open and progressive while being experienced with hardship— authentic and good-humored while having a firm hand as needed— shy and quiet while speaking his mind without hesitation. He is a gift to the Church, a boon; had the Holy Father understood the depth of this sooner, he would have made him a cardinal sooner, as well.

And yet, Benítez had still worked his rosary until the Holy Father feared the string would fray and break and scatter the beads all over the floor.

“I am a liar,” he had whispered, months ago now. The scars from a recent bombing gleamed silver on his skin; he had seemed waxen, ashen, drawn. His surgery to remove his appendix had been not long past. “I have sinned my entire life. I have broken my vows, I—”

“Be calm,” the Holy Father had stopped him, when Benítez’s breaths had come fast and panicked. “What makes you say this, my child?”

Benítez had paused only a moment before telling him everything.

The Holy Father had not changed his mind about him.

If anything, this had only cemented his place in his mind. Cardinal Benítez is truly one of the greatest holy representatives on Earth of what the Holy Father believes is God’s design for His most loyal servants. God shaped him so as to be an envoy for all humanity, fragments symbolic of all people; the Holy Father could find no sin in being so crafted by the hands of the Lord, only blessing.

There had been tears in Benítez’s eyes when he had told him this, and when the Holy Father had asked him to pray with him, and when Benítez had returned to him days later and informed him that he had changed his mind.

“I am as God made me,” he had said. “I would not doubt His vision.”

“Nor would I,” the Holy Father had agreed, warm and delighted, and that had been that. Resignation withdrawn, Benítez remaining, and the Church’s future secured.

Making Benítez a cardinal in pectore had made sense for many reasons, but the chief among them was simply that the Holy Father wanted to keep him safe. He had to make him a cardinal, had to elevate him, had to; it was apparent to him that he could not let him slip by, that this was where God meant for Benítez to be. His status as a cardinal— the divinity of his body— the perils of his mission— the purity of his soul— it was all too delicate, too dangerous, to put at risk.

And, even then, the Holy Father had known his time was limited. If he isn’t dead by this time next month, he would be remarkably surprised. A cardinal like Benítez is a crucial inclusion for the sort of Church that he will leave behind— his legacy, really. When the next supreme pontiff is chosen, it reassures the Holy Father to think that Benítez will be involved in the decision; the Lord has never seemed to speak more clearly than through his voice.

The Holy Father finishes reading the letter in his hands, all orderly scribbles of dragging handwriting. Cardinal Benítez thinks faster than he can write; if he didn’t know the offer would be rejected, he would suggest sending him a laptop computer, or an assistant.

Then again, if Benítez were to accept one of those things, he would not be the person the Holy Father knows and trusts and loves him to be.

His letters from Benítez arrive with biweekly consistency. Even coming from the hidden places he tucks away in, as they are, he remains steadfast in sending them and updating the Holy Father personally on his mission. The missives are typically lined with important information essential to his operations, as well as smaller, more interesting details— a new food he’s tried, a child he’s met, a song he’s learned.

When the Holy Father reads these, he can almost see the places Benítez describes, smell them, hear them. It is as if he is there, and he relishes these moments more than he knows how to verbalize, now that he cannot travel so much as he once did.

His eyes are closed, trying to imagine the taste of the salt-marinated spiced lamb Benítez has described so thoroughly for him, when he receives the familiar knock.

“Ah,” he exhales, returning to his own rooms. The low lamp light illuminates the papers scattered across his desk, the stacks of books teetering on the floor, his and Aldo’s half-finished chess game still laid out on the table from the night before. Coming back to himself, raising his voice, the Holy Father calls, “Come in, Dean.”

The door pushes in softly, Cardinal Thomas Lawrence as hushed as he ever is, as if afraid to shatter something around him by making a sound. The contrast of him has always fascinated the Holy Father; that someone so hunched in on themselves, so self-flagellating, so doubtful, should also be so wise, so honest, so diplomatic— the Holy Father is not sure he will ever be able to untangle the puzzle that is Thomas Lawrence.

Nor, he believes, does he need to. He understands what he must about Lawrence: that he has an integrity to him that even Benítez cannot rival; that he has a firm hand and a steady compass and an innate sense of duty; that he, of every cardinal under the Holy Father, knows what it truly means to serve God.

For all the knots that twist Lawrence up inside— for all that he appears unwilling or unable to verbalize in confession with the Holy Father— the Church has never known a more loyal and dedicated servant than him. Maybe even because he doubts, the Holy Father thinks, he is stronger than the rest of them; God loves the sinners, the doubters, the ones who are willing to question Him and how others interpret His word and will on Earth.

“You sought an appointment with me,” the Holy Father says to Lawrence, and notes that he has not lifted his head once since arriving. His eyes remain fixed on the floor, his shoulders curled in, his neck bent, his head bowed; the Holy Father can see the veins straining against his skin. Their throbbing makes his head ache.

“I did,” Lawrence confirms downward.

It strikes the Holy Father how like his months-previous meeting with Benítez this is: one of his favorites— though he is not meant to have them, he is, after all, only human— bowed before him, the crown of his skull on display, prepared to beg forgiveness for a sin the Holy Father is as yet unaware of, and will likely disagree with their judgment of.

“Does something trouble you?” the Holy Father asks. Lawrence hesitates. “Would you like me to take your confession?”

After a long beat of pause, Lawrence nods.

“Yes,” he says, quiet. “Please, Holiness.”

“Lawrence, please,” the Holy Father admonishes him, and Lawrence’s shoulders pull, his hands tight behind his back. When he releases, it is only so he can make the sign of the cross and fall to his knees; his fingers come back together in front of him, pressed tight to his stomach, head bowed even further until his spine curves in and his forehead nearly meets his knees. The position must hurt terribly— but then, the Holy Father supposes, this is likely why Lawrence has chosen it.

The Holy Father remembers Benítez knelt before him, begging his forgiveness; he hears echoes of his voice when Lawrence whispers, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession, and I confess, I cannot stop my mind.”

“Nor would the Lord see your mind stopped,” the Holy Father tells him. “What thoughts have you been holding within?”

Lawrence falls silent again, collecting his words in his mouth before he speaks them. The Holy Father waits, patient, and considers— not for the first time— the balance that he could strike if Benítez were willing to join them here in Rome. Together, he and Lawrence would complete the vision the Holy Father has for the future of this Church; they would be formidable allies, would complement each other’s strengths and counterbalance one another’s weaknesses.

It is a shame, the Holy Father thinks, that he will not see them come together. He thinks it is part of why God placed him on the Throne of Saint Peter: so that he could see the unification of his Church through the unification of these men.

Like when he first knew Benítez, he feels the Holy Spirit move through him, direct him, guide his hand. He may not understand why, but he does not need to; he can feel it, and knows it to be true, and this is better than an explanation. It is a clear example of God’s divine will, and it would be akin to sacrilege for the Holy Father to ignore it.

“I do not know that I can remain here,” Lawrence admits, nearly inaudible in his grieved confession. “I do not know that this is where I belong. I doubt my place, Father. I am not… I— I am uncertain whether…”

His voice breaks slightly, a tremble to it that the Holy Father feels as a tightening knot in his own throat.

In this moment, Lawrence needs guidance. He needs to be directed back onto his path; he has only just begun to stray.

But the Holy Father is, after all, only human, and his blood runs cold at Lawrence’s confession. There are only so many months— weeks— days, he fears, left to him in this life. Lawrence will be instrumental in the conclave that will select the next bishop of Rome; in fact, it could not be done without him. For all his doubts, he cannot let them get so severe now; he cannot resign his position, cannot step down, cannot leave Rome, cannot.

“Stop this,” the Holy Father says, firmer than he means to be.

If there is to be a new Pope chosen, Lawrence must be involved in choosing them. The Holy Father thinks of the documents he has accumulated, the suspicions he has confirmed, the work that still needs to be done.

“Your Holiness—”

“You doubt yourself?” the Holy Father asks. “Or you doubt God?”

“Never,” Lawrence exhales. His incredulity is enough to drive his head up. “I would never doubt God, Holy Father. I trust in Him absolutely.”

“Then why do you doubt His path for you?” the Holy Father asks, and Lawrence’s expression grows further troubled. The Holy Father would regret this more, if he did not know it to be necessary. To hurt Lawrence feels nearly a sin— but to allow him to leave would be a sin far greater.

“I am not fit,” Lawrence tells him, as if this is some dark secret and not a warped untruth. “I would see the Church dismantled before I would see it grow, and this would be the failure of my life. I cannot allow myself to ruin all I love this way.”

The Holy Father surveys Lawrence in a mild state of shock. Though pride is a sin, he cannot help but take it in his Church, in many of his cardinals, in his Dean. The letter from Benítez lays still beneath his hands; he glances down at it, as if it has come from another life to send him a message, and has a realization.

When this conclave is soon to happen— and it is quite soon to happen, he knows this— Lawrence and Benítez are his greatest hope for seeing his legacy through. They would not, however, be able to succeed without the other. In so many ways, Lawrence is the black-and-white while Benítez is the grey— and yet, in so many others, Lawrence is the grey, and Benítez the black-and-white. They will need each other in the times to come.

They both must remain as cardinals. They must. If they are not here, the Holy Father cannot pass in peace, and the Lord God is soon to reclaim him; he cannot leave until he is certain that both Benítez and Lawrence will stay.

“Your work is not yet done,” the Holy Father insists. “Pray with me, Cardinal Lawrence. I think we could find an answer together that does not necessitate your removal from Rome.”

Lawrence’s conflicted expression grows all the more distressed. “But, Holy Father— I am a liar. I am a sinner, and worse, I have been my whole life. I have broken my vows, I have failed—”

“Stop this,” the Holy Father stops him, hearing the echoes of Benítez’s pleas underneath Lawrence’s. Extending his hands, he repeats, “Pray with me.”

Looking up at him with that mournful face, Lawrence does not move. For a long moment, the Holy Father is certain that he will never move, that he will forever remain on his knees, that he will die there begging for absolution that is not needed and cannot come.

After a long moment, though, he reaches forward and places his hands in the Holy Father’s. He is so young, still; Lawrence’s hands are not quite so lined as his own. There is so much time left to him, and so much life to live, and so much service to give the Church. He cannot step down now; he cannot doubt himself so now. The cardinals need him; Benítez needs him; the Holy Father needs him; the Church needs him; God needs him.

“I am so sorry,” Lawrence whispers. “Paenitet me.” His hands grip the Holy Father’s. “Io non sono degno.”

“You question God’s will,” the Holy Father states.

Lawrence appears stricken.

“Never,” he breathes. “Never.”

The Holy Father tightens his grip on Lawrence’s hands, watches him bow once more over his lap. The top of his head is so unlike Benítez’s, and yet, the Holy Father can see the same glowing halo, the thorny crown, the blood rush.

If the Church is to move forward in any meaningful way, Lawrence must be there, and Benítez must be there, and the Holy Father must not be there. All he can do is trust that, together, they will find their way, will see the light, will feel the Holy Spirit move them as he does.

“You are as God made you,” the Holy Father tells Lawrence, and God and Benítez both speak with him.

Beneath his hands, bowed and bent and yet still unbroken, Lawrence chokes on a sob.

“Tell me,” the Holy Father instructs him, “Psalm 55:22.”

Lawrence’s shoulders shake, shuddering beneath the Holy Father’s touch.

“Tell me, Thomas.”

After a wet inhale, Lawrence murmurs, “‘Cast… Cast your cares unto the Lord, and He will sustain you.”’ His fingers tighten in the Holy Father’s. “‘He will never let the righteous fall.’” His forehead touches the backs of the Holy Father’s hands. “But I have already fallen, Your Holiness.”

“Then stand up, Lawrence,” the Holy Father orders him. “And move forward on the path He has laid for you.”

Lawrence, fragmented, sucks in fast breaths and struggles to pull himself together. Not for a moment does the Holy Father doubt that he is the one to lead the Church to their next life.

Or, one of two.

The Holy Father tightens his grip and does not permit Lawrence to further stray. He will beg forgiveness for his selfishness and sin later; for now, he must act in service of God, must keep this garden lush, must ensure the mother and father of all humanity are not lost before their visions can be realized.

“I cannot,” Lawrence whispers.

“You can,” the Holy Father informs him. “You will.” His knuckles are white around Lawrence’s, holding him steady. “You must.”

Chapter Text

the press

[ Excerpt from ‘The Pope’s Crimson Shadow,’ pub. Beacon Bulletin, Sept. 2025, Edition 25,234. ]

“Wherever the Pope goes, he is sure to have two shadows.”

Before the unexpected ascendance of Cardinal Vincent Benítez into Pope Innocent XIV eight months ago, it had been heavily rumored that Cardinal Thomas Lawrence was soon to step down from his position as Dean of the College of Cardinals. When he not only remained in place upon the Pope’s appointment, but also appeared to immediarely thereafter claim a place directly beside the new occupant of the Throne of Saint Peter, many within the Church were reported to be rather surprised.

“Cardinal Lawrence will always do what he believes to be best,” an anonymous source was quoted as saying from within the walls of the Vatican. “Evidently, he has decided this is commitment in service of the Pope. And the Church. Perhaps we should not be so surprised, in the end, by his dedication.”

Sure enough, it seems that everywhere Pope Innocent XIV travels, Cardinal Lawrence accompanies him. Initial speculation began cool and slow with the consideration that the young, unexpecting Pope would need guidance from an experienced hand. Few are more familiar with the inner workings of the Church’s highest levels than Cardinal Lawrence— a fact that became starkly evident after reports were distributed following the events of the papal conclave.

However, Pope Innocent XIV has taken to his role with a great deal of grace and skill. Though rumors of behind-closed-doors behaviors persist, there is little to substantiate them; Pope Innocent seems as pure as his name would suggest. From photographs of him lunching with the Daughters of Charity, to service trips to Kabul and Baghdad and Kinshasa, to personally redirecting Vatican funds to under-served programs in South America and Africa— he is, in fact, the picture of innocence.

With how well the new Pope is handling his meteoric rise and his placement on the Throne, one might imagine that his need for guidance would be short-lived. Despite this, Cardinal Lawrence appears to remain as top advisor to His Holiness.

It was always expected that Pope Innocent XIV would require trusted hands alongside his own as he takes on what may be decades of service to the Church ahead. Though the inclusion of Cardinal Lawrence amongst those hands— his right hand, as it may be— is a surprise following the many rumors of his expected resignation, it is not so surprising to insiders at the Vatican who know him personally.

“So long as he [the Pope] is here, Thomas [Cardinal Lawrence] isn’t going anywhere,” stated an official within the Church. “And the Pope would never see him dismissed, so, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see who dies first.”

Colorful commentary regarding the Pope and his cardinal, and yet, if one is to put stock in the rumors that have begun escaping over the Vatican walls, this is only the tip of the iceberg regarding the intimacy between the two. Speculation even further suggests work on behalf of Cardinal Lawrence during the conclave to ensure the election of…

[CONTINUED ON PAGE 7A]

[ an instagram screenshot from a user with the name @wanderwomandiaries, posting a blurry picture from the Vatican Gardens, which has been liked by venetiandaddy and 265 others. the caption reads: "okay might be tripping but I swear I saw the Pope with some guy during my tour at the Vatican Gardens? I got yelled at taking the picture sorry it's so bad but ?????" ]

[ Excerpt from ‘Cunty Catholics,’ blog post dated November 12th, 2025. ]

…This is actually our fifth confirmed sighting of the man we all know to be Cardinal Goffredo Tedesco at Resort Venere, and the third in which he is wearing no clothes. Bonus points to anyone who can figure out what the tattoo on the back of his left leg is; it’s too blurry for me to make out, even when I enhanced the highest quality file I could find.

Speaking of the cardinals— it’s time for my Weekly Thomas Touch Tally! I’ve been keeping track while the Pope is in Spain, since it seems like they’re on some sort of excursion literally every second of every day— and I do say they because, as always, Thomas Lawrence is glued to Pope Innocent’s side.

Our favorite cardinal— and the Pope’s, clearly— famously was never spotted in close (physical) contact with any of his fellow cardinals. Or, famously to us, at least. We all remember when that one photo of him with Aldo Bellini’s arm through his nearly broke my brain. If you had told me then that, after the next conclave, Thomas would be touching the new Pope on such a constant basis that I would feel the need to keep track of it, I would beg you to please send me the rpf you were reading, because I would be very compelled.

Instead, this rpf is rpnf, I suppose. This week, we kept a running tally, and here are all the times we saw Thomas touch the pope:

1. Catching Innocent by the arm when he stumbled leaving the airport.
2. Tying Innocent’s shoelace for him. (two minutes later) (???)
3. Tapping Innocent’s cheek to get his attention and point out a bird flying overhead. [link]
4. Allowing Innocent to take his hand and put it inside his arm while they walked during an interview in Madrid.
5. Bumping Innocent’s shoulder to point out a kid holding out a bunch of flowers to him.
1. I think it should be noted that Innocent put one of the daisies behind Thomas’s ear and he left it there for most of the rest of that day, so. I’m sure that means nothing.
6. Brushing Innocent’s hair back and fixing his zucchetto before a picture could be taken of him.
7. Putting his hand on the small of Innocent’s back to guide him through the crowd at The Church of Santa Anna.
8. Giving Innocent his arm to help him step over an (incredibly small!) puddle.
9. Taking off his jacket and giving it to Innocent while they were on a private walk together.
1. This is if you believe this photo is of them, which I personally believe, and you can take this belief out of my cold, dead hands.
10. Handing Innocent a small baggie of snack crackers (maybe Cheez-its?) and their fingers brush way too close. I’m not biased, that’s just factual.
11. Holding Innocent’s hand and then allowing him to twirl him in a circle like they're dancing.
1. Link to the video. This one’s just ridiculous.

Plus, we have:

• 12 noted hand holds;
• 8 wrist grabs;
• 7 back-of-hand taps;
• 7 loaded glances [loaded glance criteria pdf];
• 4 hand/ring kisses.
• 1 confirmed instance of sharing a room (bed situation unclear).

And this is just what I’ve managed to compile myself. Based on paparazzi photos and official Spanish press. In the last five days. Of Pope Innocent’s work trip to Spain with his buddy.

Did you know cardinals mate for life? I’m sure that’s irrelevant. And probably blasphemous. Definitely one of the two.

Speaking of blasphemous, though, I do have an update on the ongoing situation that I personally believe to be developing between Goffredo Tedesco and Aldo Bellini. Did you know Aldo has also visited Resort Venere this month? I actually found receipts that prove…

[a screenshot of a series of tweets from Nadia Peles, @yowzaventure. first tweet reads: "SWEAR TO GOD (lol) I think I just saw the Pope eating a street taco. this is not real life" second tweet reads: "this is him right?? yeah DEFINITELY just saw this guy except he was in like. a jacket and baseball hat and sunglasses like he was peter parker incognito lmaooooooo" with a picture of Vincent Benitez as a priest. third tweet reads: "THERE'S A BALD GUY WITH HIM Y'AAAAALLLLLLL !!!!!!!!!!" and a picture of the homophobic "bit fruity" dog meme. fourth tweet reads: "he's choking on his own taco and the Pope (of the catholic fucking church) is laughing at him. wtf am i looking at"]

[ Excerpt from The Rumor Mill, pub. January 2026. ]

Blind Items, Revealed!

… #7: This high-level Vatican official that has not been in his position for very long has been noted spending excess time with another high-level Vatican official. People have noted the two are together a great deal of time in public as well as behind closed doors. Refusals to discuss the intimacy have only been seen as a source of confirmation.

Revealed: Pope Innocent XIV and Cardinal Thomas Lawrence.

UPDATE: Statement from Vatican Press Office.

[ Excerpt from statement from Vatican Press Office, dated January 30th, 2026. ]

…On behalf of Pope Innocent XIV, the Office of the Church would like to remind the good people of 2 Timothy 2:23: “But reject foolish and ignorant speculations, knowing that they breed quarrels and strife.”

The members of the clergy residing within the Vatican hold deep love for one another, as they hold love for all members of the Church and all residents of God’s Earth. There is no sin to be found in closeness with a comrade within the Church. His Holiness’s love for his family is the known manifestation of God’s love for His own.

The Office of the Church would also like to remind of a favorite passage of Pope Innocent XIV, 1 Peter 4:8: “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

Chapter Text

joseph tremblay

Deacon Joseph Tremblay may no longer be Camerlengo nor cardinal, but that does not make him a fool.

And, more to the point, he can see.

He’s well aware that he’s been keeping an undue eye on the Pope during his visit to the Vatican. Admittedly, he’d been nervous in returning— it’s his first time here since the conclave, when he’d been told gently by Pope Innocent XIV that he was lucky he was still allowed to be so much as a deacon, in a tone so soft Joseph hadn’t even realized exactly what had happened until the door was closed behind him.

It’s better than the late Holy Father’s dismissal in some ways, and yet— frankly, fucking humiliating in others.

Joseph struggles not to see red every time he so much as thinks of His Holiness, after that. When Bishop Benjamin Duchesne of the Office of the Permanent Diaconate in Montreal requested that he be the one to accompany him on his trip to Rome, he had nearly refused. It’s only his self-imposed insistence on agreeing to everything that is asked of him, determined to work his way back up the Church’s good graces as high as he can climb, that forces him to accept despite knowing what it means.

Lucky him, the first day of their arrival, His Holiness, Pope Innocent XIV is not there. He’s meant to be, but he’s been delayed traveling.

Of course, practically everyone else in the Holy See avoids him as if he has a plague— which, he supposes, he does. In a way. Scandal is its own disease, and with the wide berth he is given by nearly every person within the walls of the Vatican, it is akin to leprosy.

The first night, he entertains the idea of leaving the walled city in plainclothes to get himself a solitary dinner. He’s not looking forward to seeing the other residents of the Casa Santa Marta and the forced politeness— or, worse, being completely ignored, as if all of them are schoolboys in the dining hall once more— but Bishop Duchesne once again forces his hand by collecting him before he can disappear into the darkness.

As expected, there do not seem to be many empty seats available for Joseph to claim. Despite requesting his presence, Duchesne vanishes within minutes to join friends of his visiting from Central America, and Joseph is left alone as if a wallflower at a school dance. Pitiful.

With a firm internal decision not to let any internal emotions show, Joseph instead projects what he hopes to be an air of confident indifference.

And, clutching his plate of chicken and potatoes, he spots an empty seat next to Aldo Bellini.

Repressing a sigh, Joseph strides to the table, chin lifted, and greets him, “Cardinal Bellini. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Aldo startles, twitching upwards. He’d had his elbow on the table beside his empty plate, his chin in one hand— in contemplation, Joseph had assumed— but he now sees that he had been scrolling through his phone. He quickly locks the screen when he realizes who stands over him.

“Card— Ah,” Aldo stops himself, as if it has not been over a year since his descent to deaconship. “Deacon Tremblay. I had heard you were visiting. Welcome back.”

“Pleasure to be back,” Joseph replies.

They share a moment of silence.

Then, Joseph motions to the empty seat beside him. “May I…?”

“Oh.” Aldo looks to the chair as if surprised to discover it there. “Yes. Of course.”

After a stilted beat, he even stands and withdraws the chair for him. A movement that may have once felt deferential and respectful now reeks of pity and charity, as if Aldo is being generous towards him.

That may have something to do with the tone of Joseph’s voice when he asks, “And how has your service of our Holy Father been lately, hm?”

Aldo raises a single eyebrow at him. Joseph does not lower his chin, though he’s beginning to lose his appetite.

“Actually,” Aldo replies, “it’s been rather wonderful.” He shifts in his chair, pushing away his empty plate so he may fold his hands together on the tabletop, facing Joseph only halfway. His features are in profile, glasses slipping just a bit, as he says, “I have found a lot of clarity in serving Innocent. He has a… very clear way of seeing things. I think you may benefit from it, too, if you—”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” Joseph cuts him off, writing each word off as they are spoken to him. “Speaking of, I hear his return is delayed.”

“Mm.”

“I assume, then,” Joseph says, over Aldo’s fingertips lightly tapping on the table in rhythm, “Cardinal Lawrence is delayed, as well.”

Aldo’s finger-tapping comes to an abrupt halt. Joseph pretends not to notice, lifting his knife and fork instead, head down as if delighted by the appearance of his potatoes on the plate.

“You would be correct, yes,” Aldo replies, in a tone so careful Joseph knows he can’t be imagining it.

Joseph cuts out a bite from his baked chicken, a neat and tidy little square, and pops it into his mouth more as a stage direction than as a morsel of food. By the time he has chewed and swallowed, the pause has stretched on painfully long, and Aldo is frowning at the side of his face.

“It’s a shame,” Joseph finally says. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing him.”

“He will return when the Holy Father returns,” Aldo replies, still so careful, as if even these words are not confirmation of the suspicions Joseph has been harboring since he saw the first official pictures of Innocent’s papacy.

Or—

More specifically, when he saw Cardinal Lawrence in the first official pictures of Innocent’s papacy, smiling as he knelt to kiss his ring.

Smiling.

Thomas Lawrence, smiling.

Of course, Pope Innocent was smiling down at him, but he smiles at everybody. The perfect, saintly picture of the head of the Church, always so friendly, so kind; his firm determination only adds strength to his softness. Absurdly, even being caught being ridiculously unprofessional— escaping into Rome in plainclothes, laughing his way through press conferences, skateboarding within the Vatican— seems to raise him in people’s estimation.

And in those pictures, those first official pictures, there perfect Pope Innocent had been, smiling down at a smiling Cardinal Lawrence, and— despite the smiles Innocent has given practically everyone he has encountered since becoming Pope— Joseph knew he had not seen this expression once before.

“Of course, he will,” Joseph replies, taking another neat bite of chicken. “A good dog knows how to heel.”

Aldo’s silence speaks more than any return words ever could. After a chilled moment, then two— during which Joseph only chews his chicken and pretends his heart is not pounding with the thrill of risk— Aldo rises from his seat.

“Good evening, Deacon,” he drops between them, cold as ice, before collecting his plate and disappearing in a swirl of red.

Joseph exhales a long breath, pushing his own plate away once Aldo is gone. Despite the hollow ring of victory, he’s not particularly hungry anymore.

The next day, Joseph sees Pope Innocent XIV for the first time in person since his ascension and Joseph’s simultaneous descension.

This means, of course, that he also sees Thomas Lawrence for the first time in person since the conclave, as well— because Thomas Lawrence is, as always, attached to His Holiness’s hip. A heeling dog, indeed.

The first time he spots them, it is from afar, taking bags— their own bags, presumably— into the Casa Santa Marta. He hadn’t realized Innocent had chosen to remain there, as the Holy Father before him had; it shouldn’t surprise him, knowing the favor he held with His Holiness before his passing. He probably would be content with the fifty-foot spartan-bare rooms the late Holy Father had begun insisting on every member of the Curia residing in.

However, to Joseph’s recollection, Thomas’s grace-and-favour apartments had not been located within the Casa Santa Marta.

And yet, despite how long Joseph watches the door, Thomas does not come back out.

Every time Joseph sees Thomas, after this, he is somehow in the company of the Pope— as if the Pope has nothing better to do with his time than spend it with a cardinal.

When he finds them at mealtimes, they are sat side-by-side. The cordoned-off area in the dining room of the Casa Santa Marta that had been reserved for the late Holy Father has been disassembled; instead, Innocent eats amongst the other diners as if he is one of them, and yet never more than an arm’s length from Thomas.

When he finds them at Mass, they are glued to one another, regardless of whether or not the Pope is the one giving Mass. If he is speaking, Thomas is just beside him, turning the pages for him, serving as cupbearer, meeting his eye every time the Pope turns and catches it and smiles at him; if he is not speaking, they are always sitting beside one another, taking communion one after another, Thomas always waiting for Innocent to finish before stepping down with him.

When he and Bishop Duchesne have their private meeting with Innocent, Thomas is, once again, there. It is as if he cannot trust Innocent out of his sight; he remains at the table throughout the meeting, most of his attention fixed on the Pope, as if a man whose life he had a heavy hand in destroying was not sitting down the table from him.

All the more humiliating, to come all this way and see Thomas be essentially unaffected by his presence. He’s so focused on Pope Innocent, Joseph is— perhaps a bit scornfully— surprised that he remembers to greet the rest of them at all.

Joseph had at least expected one of his guilty looks, or for Thomas to dart around avoiding him, or even to receive an apology, and yet, none of this has happened. Instead, Thomas doesn’t even seem bothered by Joseph’s presence there. He doesn’t seem to feel anything about him here.

At the very least, he and Bishop Duchesne are only meant to be in the Vatican another two days. The rest of their time in Rome will be spent elsewhere.

And yet—

—Thomas never seems to have time for him.

He never seems to have time for anything beyond Pope Innocent, and whatever his strange mind has decided that entails. Overseeing the cardinals, maintaining the Pope’s schedule, managing what appears to be the entirety of the Vatican— to Joseph, Thomas seems more housewife than cardinal.

And what’s more? Joseph has never seen him thrive so thoroughly.

Thomas is someone he has known for quite a long time and, in that quite a long time, Joseph also has known him to be a rather miserable, depressed, and anxious individual, even at the best of times. Just— deeply pathetic, one of those men who can’t help but exude sadness. It’s one of the many— many, many, many— reasons Joseph had been stunned so many of his brother cardinals had voted for Thomas during the conclave. He’d always assumed everyone could see what he sees.

Or, what he used to see.

Because now, Thomas Lawrence is— focused, and smiling, and— happy.

He actually, shockingly, for once in his life, seems happy.

Joseph tries not to be infuriated by the fact that Thomas’s happiness apparently walks hand-in-hand with him caring not at all for Joseph, and quite a bit for Innocent. During the conclave, Joseph had been half-certain Thomas would either resign or take his own life before it was done, he looked so constantly miserable. And yet, now, he’s practically glowing, and Joseph feels this— this feeling inside, and it’s not— It’s not jealousy, it’s just— shock, really.

Confusion.

Suspicion.

Just a bit of suspicion, because— really. Joseph hadn’t considered the notion that Thomas may have known Pope Innocent XIV when he was still Vincent Benítez before, but the way they act now, after hardly a year-and-a-half of working together, as if they are— inseparable comrades, close partners, intimate confidantes, and not a new Pope and his cardinal? It’s bewildering. There has to be more going on; anyone who isn’t suspicious ought to be regarded as a subject of suspicion themselves, in Joseph’s opinion.

Holding the door for Innocent despite the fact that he has a Guard. Allowing Innocent to feed him off of his own plate. Intertwining their hands while taking a walk in the Gardens, for the love of all that is holy, what is Thomas thinking?

Against his wishes, this consumes most of Joseph’s attention for the remainder of his time within the Vatican’s walls. Even worse, he can never find a moment where Thomas is alone to try and address him and gain any semblance of closure; always, Pope Innocent is there, the two of them constant presences at one another’s side, and Joseph feels as if he might go insane witnessing their unnatural orbit of each other.

He spends his last night in the Casa Santa Marta awake until nearly three, searching on his laptop computer for every article, essay, blog post, tweet, photograph, et al, anything he can discover featuring Pope Innocent or Cardinal Lawrence— or, in many cases since the beginning of Innocent’s papacy, both.

When he finally rouses for morning prayers and his last breakfast in the dining hall of the Casa Santa Marta, he is bleary-eyed and delirious and more convinced of his suspicions than ever.

And for once— for once— he finds Thomas without the Holy Father beside him.

He sits instead beside Aldo at his customary table, the both of them quiet; he has a ceramic mug near his hand, though it seems to have been long since emptied of whatever it contained. Instead, his focus has shifted onto a book in his other hand. Next to him, Aldo appears to be reading the same volume, some slim novel wrapped in red with a gold-embossed title Joseph doesn’t bother to read.

Instead, feeling a slight mania in seizing his opportunity, he strides up to the table and asks, “If I may have a word, Dean?”

Thomas startles, as if a spooked horse, and nearly drops his book. When his eyes fly up past the rim of his glasses to find who has spoken to him, Joseph witnesses his expression move through surprise, then confusion, before landing on mild disappointment, and something bitter and acidic twists in the pit of Joseph’s stomach.

“Of course, Deacon Tremblay,” Thomas replies. Joseph isn’t sure if he’s imagining the emphasis on Deacon; he didn’t sleep too well, and he hasn’t eaten yet, and the last few days have been driving him absolutely insane.

After an awkward beat, Aldo marks his page with an emerald-tassled bookmark and rises.

“I’ll see you at eleven, then, Thomas?” Aldo asks, and Thomas nods, setting his own book aside, folding his glasses, moving to rise.

“No, here is fine,” Joseph says. To Aldo, smiling, he says, “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

Aldo’s scowl at him makes it clear what he thinks of his thanks, and yet Joseph does not permit his smile to drop, not even after Aldo has taken his leave. He’s still smiling, even, when he claims Aldo’s abandoned seat as his own, though it feels a far falser thing than the smile that takes up near-permanent residence on Thomas’s face lately.

A smile, Joseph notes, that is notably not on his face at the moment.

Instead, the miserable and pathetic and anxious Thomas seems to be clawing his way back to the surface, and Joseph can only feel a twist of grim satisfaction at the sight.

“What concerns you, Joseph?” Thomas asks once they’re close together, and Joseph nearly laughs in his face. To act so intimate— to pretend they are still friendly— to continue a charade of concern? It’s insulting, it’s demeaning, it’s—

—It’s legitimate, Joseph realizes a beat later, stunned. Thomas—

Thomas genuinely does not seem to understand the fury and confusion roiling just underneath Joseph’s skin, he only seems— confused? Or— worried, even, as if he genuinely wants to know what concerns him, and it’s as infuriating as it is bewildering.

Thrown by this response, Joseph flails for a brief moment before telling him, “I— wanted to ask after the Holy Father.”

And, in an instant, Thomas’s entire countenance changes.

His face lights up, as if glowing from within, his own inner light. His eyes even seem brighter, the blue eyes that Joseph has witnessed fading over decades suddenly suffused with brilliant new color. His gaunt cheeks, usually so pale, flush with warmth; he straightens up, every line of his body speaking a whole new language; he smiles—

Once again, he smiles, and Joseph understands everything, all of it, as if divinely told so by God.

Maybe he hasn’t been completely forgotten.

“He’s doing just wonderfully,” Thomas insists. “I’d been a bit concerned at first, if only because I know how heavy a burden the papacy could be. I know you don’t believe it, Joseph, but I was sickened by the idea of being elected. I feared for our new Holy Father, but I never needed to. He has taken to his position as if born to it.”

Thomas’s smile is blinding.

“I suppose we were right, in the end,” Thomas tells him. When Joseph doesn’t respond right away, he clarifies, “At the conclave, I mean. It was a messy thing for— a while, and— All that unpleasantness. But, the Holy Spirit most certainly spoke through us in the end, to bring Vincent to the position he was always meant to be in. We were all just vessels to get him there.”

Joseph feels his eyes going dry and forces himself to blink.

“He’s just a natural,” Thomas continues, needing evidently nothing from Joseph to extol Pope Innocent’s— Vincent’s, evidently, if one is Thomas Lawrence— many, many virtues.

And over the course of the next half-hour that is his final meal at the Vatican, Joseph hears about each and every last one of them, as if Thomas Lawrence has a mental Rolodex of everything Innocent has done: every prayer given, every task undertaken, every goal voiced, every food sampled, every joke told. Joseph is surprised he doesn’t receive a running count of every smile Pope Innocent has deigned to grace upon one of his most unworthy subjects.

By the time the Sisters are coming to help clear the last plates, Thomas seems a bit startled, glancing to Joseph with surprise.

“I’m so sorry for rambling, Deacon,” Thomas apologizes, sounding genuine. “What was your question, again?”

Joseph, uncertain whether or not he has spoken more than two words in the last thirty minutes, exhales a breath he’s been holding for longer than he can ever know.

“You’ve answered it,” Joseph replies, and Thomas smiles again. It’s still strange to see.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Thomas replies. “It was lovely to see you again, Joseph. I am so glad you’re doing well.”

He rises from the table, and Joseph stands with him. Though he moves to address him and say farewell, Thomas is already looking away, beginning to leave him, as if he has already been entirely forgotten.

When Joseph spots Pope Innocent in the hall outside— heading towards them with a smile of his own and his eyes fixed on Thomas and not a blip of attention paid to Joseph himself— he understands precisely why Thomas has done this, as well.

While watching the Pope come to Thomas and embrace them, all warmth and smiles and unholy closeness, Joseph files every bit of this information away into his own mental Rolodex. Just in case; after all, one never knows.

Chapter Text

joshua adeyemi

Attending Mass can be such a centering experience.

Joshua finds a great deal of peace in prayer. It may sound trite, or false, or common, but it's true, and always has been. It's part of why he has wanted to be a servant of God for so much of his life; it’s part of why it hurts so badly that he is losing everything, bit by bit.

There are only days left before he will be demoted down to bishop. It has already been months since his demotion from cardinal to archbishop, and months before that when he lost his position as Cardinal Major Penitentiary. He knows Thomas Cardinal Lawrence has had his hand in Pope Innocent XIV’s decision to so gradually see him resign all offices and slowly be demoted until they see him quietly out of the Church completely.

It is the least humiliating option, but the least humiliating is still humiliating.

All the same, Joshua keeps up the act. There is nothing else to do. His punishment has long since been decided; his mistakes have even longer since been made. He cannot go back, and so the only way he can go is through.

He does as he is told. He does not draw further attention to himself. He takes solace in prayer.

And, when required, he attends a papal Mass.

It has been two years since the conclave that saw Vincent Benítez ascend and transform into Pope Innocent XIV. Of course, because he is whom he is— so unabashedly himself, a paragon of good, a person who would be infuriating or comical if Joshua himself had not witnessed how genuine it all is— his Mass is not celebratory. It is not an exciting anniversary party; it is a memorial event for those who died or were hurt in the bombings that day.

Innocent is not like the popes that predated him. His memorial Mass is held in St. Peter’s Square, himself in the center of the crowd; his only allowance to the Guard was the raised platform they’ve put him on, if only so he can see and be seen even farther because of it. They have given him a microphone, and he speaks his homily so clearly, with the same rich and meaningful voice that Joshua remembers ringing in his ears two years ago to the day, that the crowd listens in total captivated silence.

He is in the first row surrounding Innocent’s platform. The only other people on the platform with him are his two security guards and— as always— Thomas.

Like Joshua— like everyone else here— Thomas’s attention is fixed on Innocent. Unlike Joshua, though, and everyone else here, it seems that Thomas’s attention is always fixed on Innocent. To hear it told— and Joshua hears quite a bit— Thomas’s devotion to the Holy Father borders on devout worship; he is, of course, God’s will manifested on Earth, the keeper of St. Peter’s Keys. It makes sense that he would inspire great devotion.

What Thomas is doing, though, is— more than that. If Joshua himself did not know him to be such a guilt-ridden and modest figure, he would suspect something unholy; instead, he only sees an intense devotion to their Holy Father that he cannot quite explain or account for, not entirely.

Joshua has seen the photographs, the videos. Even when serving the late Holy Father before Innocent— even in that intense devotion— Thomas was not this, this puppy trailing at the Pope’s heels, forever just within reach. His clear eyes are now always fixed on Pope Innocent; even when Joshua attempts to catch his gaze, it seems Thomas cannot see anyone but Innocent.

As talented at speaking as Innocent is— and he is talented; the crowd listens still in rapt attention to his every soft-spoken, amplified word, ringing through the entranced gathered hundreds stuffing St. Peter’s Square and the streets of the Vatican— Joshua’s attention has begun drifting to Thomas.

The weather is warm today— unseasonably so, but not outrageously so. Joshua considers it cold for home, but rather balmy for the start of winter in Rome, the sun an unexpected attendee at the Mass as if it, too, wanted to hear Innocent speak, bringing with it a humid heat that has people stripping off jackets and shading their eyes.

It is not so hot, however, that Joshua thinks Thomas should be sweating as heavily as he appears to be.

His eyes are still fixed on Innocent, but there’s a glassy quality to them that Joshua is sure wasn’t there before. Nobody seems to be paying attention to Thomas— he’s a few steps behind the Holy Father, mostly-obscured by the security detail flanking Innocent. The Pope cannot see him unless he turns all the way around, and Thomas keeps stepping up to offer him papers, give him his Bible, pass him water. Everything Innocent turns to him for is in his hand before he even needs to move, let alone ask.

Joshua skims the crowd around them. Everyone is watching Innocent, faces turned up, listening to him as if he is Christ reborn. If Joshua is being honest, he understands the feeling, blasphemous as it may sound.

Everyone but one person, he notices— because the Secretary of the College, Raymond O’Malley, is also watching Thomas from within the crowd.

For a brief moment, he must feel Joshua’s eyes on him, because his worried face and creased brow turn down a beat later. His own eyes flicker, scanning the crowd— then catch on Joshua, and he gets an urgent sensation of concern. O’Malley is, in Joshua’s experience, rather unflappable; seeing the alarm in his expression is causing a stir of unease within Joshua.

It only lasts for a second before O’Malley is returning his attention to the platform, and Joshua does the same. Though Innocent keeps speaking, he can’t process a word anymore. He’s starting to wonder if he should get Thomas’s attention, or possibly just get help.

Thomas’s gaze on Innocent seems to have gone into a hazy place of non-focus. His eyes don’t appear to be genuinely fixed on him anymore, just turned in his direction; his thin and already-pale face seems stunningly drained of color, even his lips gone white-blue, washed out to look nearly grey; a sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, shining in the gleam of the sunshine raining down on them from above. When he blinks, Joshua watches, it is slow, and strange, and he almost doesn’t expect to see his eyes open up again.

All the same, they do, and Thomas blinks harder a second time, as if attempting to clarify his vision. Joshua starts to shuffle out of his place, moving through the tight crowd to get closer to O’Malley— and closer to Thomas in the process, nearing the back of Innocent’s small raised stage.

This close, Joshua can see that Thomas’s hands are trembling, though he’s keeping them folded together in front of him, placed on the small table that holds Innocent’s notes and prayer objects while he’s not using them. As Joshua really looks, he can see that Thomas is leaning against that table, letting it take on his weight.

Lifting his hand, Thomas runs it along the side of his head. It’s a peculiar and jerking motion; Joshua exchanges another glance with O’Malley before sliding the last step closer, fitting himself in beside him.

“Is he sick?” he asks O’Malley, fighting to keep the natural crash of his voice from rising above a whisper. “He looks terrible. He is about to fall over.”

“I don’t know,” O’Malley hisses back. “He kept insisting he was well enough to attend, he wasn’t listening to me.”

“Cardinal Lawrence?” the Pope asks above their heads, and both of them look upright just as Thomas stiffens, his whole body tensing as he looks to Innocent with surprise. “Are—”

“Apologies,” Thomas says, drawing a frown to the Holy Father’s face.

His voice is audible only because Joshua is so close; the tight scrape isn’t anywhere near enough for Innocent’s microphones to pick up. They don’t even broadcast the shuffling of the papers in his hands as he scrambles to remove the right one, passing it off to Innocent a few beats too late, cue missed and attention drawn.

Thomas dips his head— in apology, or exhaustion, or shame, Joshua is not certain— and stumbles back into place behind him. Though Innocent’s eyes stay on him for a lingering moment, Thomas doesn’t lift his chin, and Innocent, though he hesitates, eventually turns away, returning to his homily.

Joshua keeps watching Thomas, though.

For everything that happened during the conclave— it would have happened anyway, regardless of who had been Dean, who was involved, when it happened. When Thomas came to him, he’d been kind. He’d even been apologetic, and understanding, and time has provided Joshua the perspective to appreciate just how good he had been in response to the atrocity of the sin Joshua knows he has committed.

There’s a soft spot in his heart for Thomas after all of that. It’s that lingering gratitude that has him focusing on Thomas alongside O’Malley, shifting to put himself behind the place Thomas stands on the pedestal.

It is nearly like watching the blood quite literally drain from his skin. The sun surely can’t be enough to do this, and yet, Joshua watches Thomas become further ashen-grey, damp with sweat, blank eyes unfocused and frail body trembling and seeming as though he is seconds from collapse. He exchanges another glance with O’Malley, then looks up towards Thomas again just as he staggers against the table.

O’Malley twitches, reaching for him; his hands stop halfway up in an aborted stretch, and Joshua shifts to join him, shoulder-to-shoulder, just behind Thomas.

The cadence of Innocent’s homily breaks off mid-word as he asks again, “Cardinal Lawrence?”

He goes quiet. Everyone goes quiet. It’s as if the entire crowd is holding its breath as Thomas clutches the edge of the table, trembling, barely keeping himself upright.

Softer, separate from the microphone, Innocent asks this time, “Thomas?”

“I’m fine,” Thomas insists. He blinks; his blue eyes have gone pale. “I’m alright. Continue, Vin— Father. Holy Father.”

His voice breaks on every other syllable. Innocent has fully turned around by the time Thomas seems to take in a half-breath, then crumple, collapsing to the ground below in a boneless pile.

Innocent moves faster than anyone else. O’Malley all but launches himself up the side of the stage, and Joshua takes the stairs two at a time, and still, Innocent is there before either of them. The security detail kneels on either side of Thomas; one lifts his head while the other takes his pulse, and Joshua drops down to grasp his other wrist on instinct.

It shouldn’t be a surprise to feel his heartbeat there in his veins. It’s only that Thomas looks dead, a grey and silent heap on the ground as he gets moved around and laid out, and Joshua has seen his fair share of dead friends.

“Thomas,” Innocent demands, separating the security guard from Thomas to take his head into his own lap instead. His hand lightly claps against his cheek before he’s looking up, desperate; the first pair of eyes he meets are Joshua’s, and—

Even in the bombing— even when he’d been elected Pope— even through all of that, Joshua is certain he has never seen Innocent as terrified as he looks right now. His dark eyes are wide, his face flushed, panic evident even through his control and his knowledge and his determination. An instant later, he’s looking away, refocusing on the heap of skin and bones in his hands that is Thomas. One hand cradles Thomas’s face, cupping his cheek, while the other grabs him by the hip and lays him down on his back.

Thomas’s devotion to Innocent must be an immense commitment. It’s clear that Innocent places a great amount of value in him; the terror in Innocent’s expression belongs to someone who is afraid of losing everything.

“Thomas, look at me,” Innocent says downwards, urgent. “Take a breath— Get him water, now,” he tells the nearest guard, and they obey in an instant, rising to run and retrieve a thermos of cold water from the waiting detail. Innocent is already holding Thomas’s face between his hands; Joshua can see the savior of Kabul and Baghdad in the determination and skill Innocent displays in every order and action. “Thomas— Thomas. Thomas, I need you to breathe.”

O’Malley loosens Thomas’s collar while Innocent pulls open his jaw, swiping fingers inside his airway before he’s bowing down to breathe for him, lips meeting his to give him air.

It’s only a heartbeat later that Thomas is jerking in his hold, eyes flying open as he sucks in a startled breath. Joshua can’t help his own sigh as he leans back, his knees throbbing from the speed and velocity with which he climbed and fell down beside Thomas. Relief floods him; it’s understandable that the others would feel it, too, seeing the Dean reawaken, a little bit of red flushing into his grey cheeks.

“Gracias, Dios, por favor, no me quites a Thomas,” Innocent chokes out before he is clutching Thomas close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice is thick when he asks, “Can you tell me your name?”

There’s a pause before Thomas manages, rasping, “Thomas Lawrence.”

“Good.” Innocent holds Thomas’s face tight between his hands, fingertips stroking through his hair. It is, Joshua assumes, a grounding technique, or possibly a way to check for head injuries; Innocent must be well-trained in first aid, especially in emergency situations. “Now, tell me, how old are you?”

Thomas groans, his eyes squinting shut.

“Too old,” he complains, and Joshua is a witness to the burst of relieved laughter that escapes Innocent in response. His eyes are bloodshot as he gathers Thoams close, arms wound around him, and lifts his head again.

“You are young still to me,” Innocent tells him. He doesn’t dignify Thomas’s indignant huff with a comment. “Look at this, see, they’re on their way to help y— What is it?” he asks, new concern bleeding into his tone when Thomas groans again and curls closer towards the Holy Father.

Thomas says something to him that Joshua cannot make out, muffled into the Pope’s side. Whatever it is he says, Innocent frowns, his arm coming up around Thomas’s shoulders, his hand cradling the back of his head as if he’s protecting him from something.

“It will all be alright,” Innocent promises, so quiet Joshua nearly does not hear it. His eyes lift a moment later and catch on Joshua’s once again, just as Innocent repeats, “Everything will be alright. Just breathe, Thomas.”

He continues on as if hundreds are not gathered and staring up in shock, watching the Pope scramble in care of his cardinal. What’s more, he seems to succeed; Thomas’s panic subsides, and he focuses not on his audience but solely on Innocent, on the hands touching him and the face above his and the reassuring words being spoken his way. Even when the paramedics arrive, his attention remains locked on Innocent, just as it has this entire time, just as it had during his homily, just as it has since they met.

It sparks a ringing bell, a warning, in the back of Joshua’s mind, that he does not want to listen to.

“Everything is alright, Thomas,” Innocent murmurs quietly. O’Malley pushes the water to Thomas’s lips as Innocent cradles his head, keeping him upright, guiding him to drink. “You are safe. You are going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

Two years ago, Thomas had knelt beside Joshua, stiff and uncomfortable, to pray at his side while he had begged God to forgive him for his past transgressions. Even knowing what he had done, Thomas had not strayed; he had prayed on his knees with him, joints cracking and face creased with a pain that went deeper than his bones, as if he were deserving of such a thing, giving him credit that he should never had in the first place.

It is for this reason that Joshua looks away now. Thomas has been good to him; he will be good to Thomas in return. He will not call out the skittish panic in the Pope that is exceedingly not papal of him; he will not identify the depth of emotion that exists between Thomas and Innocent; he will not condemn the close companionship they have clearly found in one another. If this relationship is crucial to the Pope’s functioning and to the Church’s well-being, then it is not Joshua’s place to have an opinion on it. Only God’s.

Accordingly, he does not speak as Innocent reaches out and, with a wave of his hand, parts the crowd as if he is Moses before him. The paramedics bring a wheeled gurney down the open chasm, and Innocent clutches Thomas’s hand to his chest, at his side every step of the way, as Thomas is secured and hoisted and taken, even as O’Malley moves to catch Innocent by the wrist.

“Holiness, your Mass,” O’Malley reminds him.

Innocent does not break stride. He only uses the hand not clasping Thomas’s to take up the last of his papers; eyes casting about, they land once more on Joshua, and he knows even before the words leave his mouth what the Holy Father is going to ask him.

“Archbishop, would you be kind enough to help us with this?” Innocent asks him. “You have such a celebrated voice, and you understand the gravity of this memorial. Would you read this for me, please?”

“Of course, Your Holiness,” Joshua accepts. He can’t see what other answer he could give— Innocent asks a question on God’s behalf, which Joshua could never refuse— and if he is being given such a grand opportunity to prove himself before the entirety of the Church, he will take it, and he will focus on that and that alone, and he will ignore the way Innocent grips Thomas’s hand so tightly and refuses to leave his side and uses ‘we’ and ‘us’ with such casual, familiar ease. “It would be a privilege.”

Innocent passes him the last of his pages with a squeeze to his hand and the instruction, “As written.”

A heartbeat later, he is sprinting off after the paramedics and Thomas, shushing his repeated embarrassed insistences that he’s “fine, Vincent, please, all this fuss is not necessary—”

The last Joshua sees of them, disappearing behind the wall of security and within the swarming mass of the crowd, is Innocent drawing Thomas’s hand to his own chest, pressed tight over his heart, the rosary that seems forever wound about his wrist pressing hard between his palm and the back of Thomas’s hand.

It is that, and then they are gone, vanishing amongst a sea of faces. Joshua clears his throat, looking down to the papers gathered in his hands. His first skim reveals a homily that he may not have given, himself, but not necessarily one that he’s opposed to, surprisingly enough.

And besides— he owes Innocent and Thomas this much.

Joshua steps up to the microphone to take over, suppressing his thoughts and opinions and emotions, allowing himself to momentarily become a mouthpiece for Pope Innocent— and, in the process, God, and the Church, and— and, he’s sure, in a much closer and more real sense, Thomas Lawrence, mortal and frail and yet so inexplicably rooted within their Holy Father that Joshua believes him now impossible to extract from their Holy Father.

He knows his handwriting, after all, in the margins on the notes. Thomas echoes through everything Innocent says.

“Please,” Joshua intones, letting himself slip into his booming orator’s voice. “Allow me to speak on behalf of our Holy Father.”

“Is Thomas going to be okay?” an unfamiliar voice calls from an unfamiliar face within the nearest rows of the crowd, and hundreds of expectant eyes— that belong to strangers who should not know Thomas by first name, nor be calling him by such— turn towards Joshua.

“I’m sure the Holy Father will look after Cardinal Lawrence,” Joshua assures the concerned supplicant. A wave of simultaneous stress and relief seems to ripple through the crowd; taking a chance, Joshua suggests, “Shall we pray for him?”

“Yes,” the stranger calls upwards, echoed by so many around them as they clasp their own rosary between their fingers and await his guidance.

Joshua isn’t sure that there’s any prayer he can say that will convince God to look after Thomas more closely than Innocent already is, but he raises his palms to offer one anyway. He does, after all, owe Thomas, and it is clear that he means something to these people— and to Joshua— and especially, undoubtedly, deeply— to the Holy Father.

“Let us pray for him,” Joshua says into the microphone, ringing through the Vatican. “And his health, and his strength. Heavenly Father, in Your infinite healing and wisdom, please look after Your child, Thomas Lawrence. He needs Your grace now more than ever.”

Chapter Text

sister agnes

Nobody should be in the kitchens of the Casa Santa Marta this late at night.

Agnes had only happened to glance out her window and see the golden casts of light in small haloed circles. They had been leaking out from the kitchens’ windows and out under the door, diffused through wood and stiff blinds, though this had still not been enough to conceal the light completely in the darkness.

It’s likely that one of the Sisters forgot something there, or a guest is searching for something to eat. Agnes hesitates, thinking of returning to bed, before she rises from her seat by the window with a sigh. She won’t be able to sleep thinking about what could possibly be going on; it’s better to know and handle it now than to spend the night in dread and uncertainty.

A simple matter of redressing and she is presentable in moments, striding down to confront the intruder. There’s a polite yet chastening greeting already building up in her when she pushes into the dining room and through the back door into the kitchens, but, on the threshold, she stops short.

There is no hungry nun here, no searching cardinal, no lost guest. Instead, there is only the Holy Father rummaging through a cabinet with trembling hands.

For a moment, Agnes can only watch, bewildered. She is not judging— she would never, it is not her place— but she is confused.

His Holiness is scattered in a way she has never seen him before, snatching items seemingly at random— a sack of rice, a stick of butter, raw chicken— before making his way to the counter and dropping it all. Hands still shaking, he grabs spices by the fistfuls, then puts most of them back. One small container of paprika escapes him, rolling away, and he sighs with undue weight.

Stunned, Agnes witnesses the Holy Father grip the edge of the counter in both hands, bowing his head between his arms. His dark hair hangs loose, obscures his face; he has dressed himself down, wearing nothing more than a long white nightdress, and the sleeve rides up his slender arm when he reaches up to push his hair back. He catches at the crown of his head, draws his hair tight between his fingers, then exhales roughly.

“Holy Father?” Agnes asks, trying to keep her voice quiet, no longer willing to watch in silence but still not wanting to startle Innocent.

All the same, he jumps, a hand flying over his chest as he whirls, knees bent, crouching slightly. His eyes are wide and dark when they land on Agnes, and he makes himself laugh, a breathless sound lacking genuine amusement or relief.

“Sister Agnes,” he greets her. “I must apologize. I did not expect to see anyone awake at this hour, forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she replies. Examining what he has laid out before him, she asks, “Can I offer you any assistance?”

Innocent’s dark eyes seem to penetrate Agnes for a moment. She had seen him eat his supper earlier tonight and clean his plate, as he always does; he is not one to mince words, or to waste food, or to hide like this. If he were still hungry, she’s sure she would have noticed, even if he hadn’t verbalized it. She pays attention to him.

She pays such close attention, in fact, that she does remember the one odd detail of his evening: Thomas— Cardinal Lawrence, she reminds herself, stern to reproach her own intimate informality— had not been at the Pope’s side, as he so often is.

This casts the Holy Father’s actions in an entirely new light. Surely, she assumes, he is only here to make a meal for His Eminence, Cardinal Lawrence. Though this is not an action befitting of the Pope, it is certainly something that Innocent would do. The late Holy Father, Agnes thinks, not only would have approved, but likely would have done the same.

What this does not explain, however, is His Holiness’s obvious agitation.

“You do not have to do this,” Innocent answers her, apparently having found whatever he was seeking within her face. Still, he does not look away.

Agnes does not offer a verbal reply to this. Instead, she only strides forward, grateful that she thought to cover her head before coming down. She is gracious in ignoring the Pope’s state of casual nighttime undress, from his uncovered head down to his slippered feet on the tiled floor.

Taking the chicken from him, she says, “You may sit down. I will make you a meal.”

“I would rather help,” Innocent protests, though his tone is gentle and his voice remains forever soft. “If that is not an intrusion, Sister.” After a beat of hesitation, clearly a pause that Agnes waits through, he adds, “The meal is not for myself.”

“No?” Agnes asks, eyes still averted.

She refuses to push for an explanation. Ultimately, she does not need to give one; Innocent freely provides, “Thomas… Cardinal Lawrence is not feeling well.”

Agnes dips her head slightly in a single nod, beginning to clean and prepare the chicken in quick, efficient movements.

“He is having a… a very bad night,” His Holiness continues, his voice all the softer. Agnes nearly needs to strain to hear it. “He needs sustenance. And— And company, and— and—”

That soft voice shudders, nearly breaks, and Agnes carefully does not look in his direction, even as her chest twists, stomach pooling with dread.

Cardinal Lawrence has had bad nights before. Agnes is more than aware of these bad nights. Though the cardinal himself may be unaware of her knowledge, she considers it part of her responsibilities to be aware of the general well-being of everybody under her roofs. She has witnessed, more than once, the late nights where he will wander the grounds ceaselessly without stopping for sleep, the early mornings where steam leaks out from under his bedroom door from an hour of blistering-hot showering, the meals he has ignored until she can see the bones pushing against the gaunt shadows of his face.

It is not technically her duty to enforce the cardinals’ care of themselves. Regardless, she insists on and continues doing so— and if she is being completely honest, she has a particular affection for Thomas. Cardinal Lawrence. One might even refer to it as a soft spot.

She has one for Innocent, as well.

After scrubbing her hands clean, she slides a little closer to him along the counter, near enough that she hopes he can feel her warmth, and tells him, “A good, hot meal will help him, I am sure.”

“I hope so.” Innocent is quiet for a moment before he asks, “Sister?”

“Yes, Your Holiness?”

“Please, none of that,” he says. “Not here and now. Vin— Well. I suppose that isn’t my name anymore, isn’t it?” He pauses, then, glancing up towards her with those huge dark eyes again. They are not so amused now as they often are. “Innocent. Please, always Innocent.”

She studies his face more closely, the curves and angles of his features. He is so young in many ways that matter, and so aged in so many others. The urge to reach out and touch is present, but she holds it back, as ever.

Like the late Holy Father before him, Pope Innocent XIV has seen fit to invite her to his rooms on a regular basis to discuss topics with her seemingly at random, to pick her brain and ask her opinions and encourage her advice. She has felt the urge to touch him near-nightly since her first meeting with him, just over two years ago now, and she has resisted every time.

“Innocent,” she replies. Her heart trips on a strange off-beat before righting itself as she braves the suggestion, “If you would prefer, you may call me by my name alone.”

“I would not disrespect you if this is not your preference,” Innocent insists.

“I would not offer if it were not my preference,” Agnes counters, and watches Innocent consider this before he nods, half to her and half to himself, returning his attention to his rice preparation.

“Agnes,” he says instead, and her name coming from his mouth alone that way feels so intimate. She suppresses a pleased smile down to a small twitch of her lips and nothing more. “Has Cardinal Lawrence… Thomas. Has Thomas…” He pauses, lips tightening into a line. For a moment, he appears to war with himself; then, he asks, “To your knowledge, has Thomas ever… struggled to… to… to continue on?”

The dread that had been gathering inside of her becomes a stony weight in the pit of her stomach.

“You must not misunderstand, he has not strayed,” Innocent rushes to tell her, his voice a hushed whisper. “And I do not— It is not my intention to betray any—”

“Innocent,” she stops him, and he draws short. “Thomas has struggled since I have known him.”

Innocent nods, his hands stilling on his work. He holds a bowl of rice, though he does not move, staring down at the grains as if they will offer an answer to whatever question is stirring him up so much inside.

“He always recovers,” Agnes assures him. “Occasionally, he needs a guiding hand. I think you are a good one.”

This draws a brief lightness to the surface of Innocent’s face, though it doesn’t linger long. A moment later, it is gone, and the weight on him returns a hundredfold. Sometimes, it devastates Agnes to witness the burden of the papacy; the pressure must be unimaginably immense. She wonders whether she would remain unbowed, unbent, and unbroken as Innocent has if it were her in the role. It seems impossible.

“This is kind of you, Agnes,” he tells her. “I only worry my hand is not enough.”

Agnes glances towards him as he resumes his work. She can only infer what he means— what Thomas may have done, what Innocent may have stopped him from doing, what may have occurred that has occurred before. Thomas is not doing well at the moment, this much is clear— but neither, Agnes thinks, is Innocent.

It makes sense, to her. The two of them have been tethered since Innocent’s arrival here, when he was still Cardinal Vincent Benítez. If one is not doing well, it does not surprise her in the least that the other would be affected by this. She has observed this between them from the moment of their meeting through to now.

She has observed, too, the way Thomas acts with His Holiness. He had already been close with the late Holy Father, but it was a different closeness to this. With Innocent, he is like a partner, always at his side, guarding him, guiding him, serving him, forever looking to him even when he is not doing a thing at all. Agnes recognizes precisely what this is, even if she will not voice it within her head, lest God above overhear her.

With that in mind, she struggles to believe that Innocent’s hand would not be enough for Thomas. A single touch, she thinks, would be more than.

“Your hand is plenty,” Agnes assures him.

Currently, his hand— both of them— are shaking still, and she reaches out on instinct to put her own over them. She nearly balks at the boldness of the familiar gesture, and likely would have withdrawn had Innocent not curled his fingers around hers and bent his head again over them as if in prayer.

A watery exhale escapes Innocent as he tightens his grip on her until his knuckles pale and she feels the thin bones in her hand press together.

“Thomas is not doing well,” Innocent confesses in little more than a whisper, between him, her, and God. “I fear he does not sleep well, or eat, or—”

He breaks off. Agnes watches his shoulders shudder as he tries and fails to take a steady breath. Even with his face obscured, Agnes has enough of a view of his profile to witness tears slip down his cheeks to his jawline, his chin. They roll down his throat, for the most part— though one falls from his chin to splash against the back of Agnes’s hand in his, and he sniffles, quiet, nearly concealed.

“This burden is too heavy,” Innocent murmurs. She wonders if he is speaking only to God, now. “I worry it is too much, he has— He already wanted to leave here. Before he even knew me. I have pushed him past his limits.”

“He can carry this burden,” Agnes promises him, tightening her hold on his hand. “With you at his side—”

“I am not enough,” Innocent stops her. A heartbeat later, shame washes over him in a visible wave, and he begs, “Forgive me, Agnes. I am not myself, but this is no excuse.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she repeats, trying to imbue herself with his gentleness. It is so reassuring to her; she wants him to feel the same. “Your Holiness— Innocent. You are more than enough, but it is not a matter of this. What is it you truly fear?”

Innocent looks towards her again, a note of surprise on his face for a moment before he begins to process her question.

“What is it I truly fear?” he echoes, contemplative, considering this. After a beat, he confesses, “I fear— I fear Thomas wanting to give away God’s gift. I fear he will leave us and we will not meet in the next life, and I am—  I am terrified by this, Agnes. I do not want th— This is the last thing I would want. I cannot lose Thomas— We cannot lose Thomas. This world needs him, this Church needs him. But I— I fear he is too strained here.”

There is so much to process here, and Agnes’s heart thumps steadily to pump blood around the stone in her gut. She knows that Thomas struggles— she has known this for some time— but to hear it put so plainly makes her dizzy, for a moment.

When she regains her bearings and understands properly what he has just said, she looks up towards Innocent’s face. Half-obscured by his dark hair, the streaks of grey and silver more prominent than they had been when he first arrived, his features seem crumpled-up. His breath comes in stutters before he releases one of Agnes’s hands to press the back of his wrist to his mouth.

None of the words she thinks feel like they are the correct ones. She sends a brief but thorough prayer to God for guidance and feels she receives it a moment later.

Her freed hand rises, almost of its own volition, to place itself at the crown of Innocent’s head. Her palm covers the curve of his skull in replacement of his absent zucchetto, and a full-body shiver seems to wrack him at this touch.

Undeterred, Agnes guides him down to press her lips to his forehead. It feels as if this is a kiss from God, and herself only the vessel, and she pushes the kiss accordingly hard to the warm flesh and unrelenting bone beneath. Innocent’s hand in hers tightens, and his eyes slip closed, fans of lashes concealing his dark and terrified eyes.

“I will help you,” she promises him, lips brushing his skin.

“You do not have to,” he whispers.

“I do,” she replies, and feels the truth of it. This is why she serves, she thinks; she can feel the greater purpose. It is God’s will that she be placed here to assist Innocent and Thomas— and in doing so, to assist the Church— and she will answer the call happily. “I will. I am glad to.”

Innocent nods, a short jerk, and sucks in a breath. His thumb sweeps tears away from his left eye; Agnes’s cleans them away from his right.

“We will make him a meal,” Agnes tells him. “And we will put him to sleep. Tomorrow will come, and more can be decided then.”

“Yes,” Innocent agrees in a whisper, obedient. “Thank you.”

Agnes does not even acknowledge his thanks, though his genuine gratitude floods her with warmth. “The sun will rise in the morning, Innocent. It always does.”

This seems to imbue him with an unexpected strength. He nods again, taking a steadier breath, then another, another.

“Thank you, Agnes,” Innocent repeats, then separates from her. “I do not want to leave Thomas alone too long. I should continue.”

Agnes resumes her work without a word. Side-by-side, working in tandem, the two of them prepare a simple meal of chicken and rice, bland and small and contained on one of the white-gold plates reserved for papal use. They make quick work of this; Innocent is clearly attempting to hurry, though he masks his impatience, and Agnes follows his lead.

They are mostly silent, blending into the quiet of the night, save for the clattering of dishes and utensils. When their work is completed, Agnes sets the plate on a tray with a set of silverware, two glasses, and a pitcher of water. She would offer to carry it, but Innocent takes it before the thought can fully form, let alone the offer actually leave her mouth. His hands, she noticed, still shake, though not quite as tremulously as they had when she first arrived.

“Thank you for everything tonight, Sister Agnes,” Innocent tells her before he leaves, looking for all the world like the nursemaid, the very image of Florence Nightingale, in his white gown and healing tray and compassionate concern. “It means everything. To me, and to Thomas.”

“I will include you both in my prayers tonight,” Agnes tells them, as if she does not do exactly this every time she prays. It is not right to have favorites, but if God is permitted to do so, perhaps Agnes will be forgiven for this.

“You are in mine,” Innocent replies, and Agnes wishes, not for the first time and not for the last, to touch him— to touch him again. This time, she believes she would embrace him.

But he is moving to leave and return to Thomas, and she remains where she is, drying the last pan to set on the rack for overnight drying.

“Your Holiness,” she cannot stop herself from saying, and he turns back before he is gone. “Remember that you are burdened, as well. Do not neglect yourself, or you will find yourself in the same low place. None of us wish to see you this way.”

The smile Innocent offers her is horribly sad. She nearly wishes she hadn’t spoken at all, though she felt— still feels— that her words were necessary.

“So long as he is with me,” Innocent tells her, “I can carry the burden with ease.” He inclines his head, dark eyes glistening, voice gently soft and yet still clear and firm enough to be heard across the kitchens. “Goodnight, Sister. Thank you for everything, again. I am in your debt.”

“Goodnight, Holy Father,” Agnes replies, and begins to protest his claim, but he is already gone before any further words can fall between them.

In the empty, quiet silence left behind, the door swinging shut, Agnes takes a moment to stare after him. She can still see him in her mind’s eye— and what’s more, she can see Thomas as he must be, and Innocent at his side, and them as they surely are together, and—

They are vital to each other. Crucial. They are vital and crucial to the Church, as well— and to God— and to Agnes. It is not her place to deny them one another, as if she would ever.

It is not just the Holy Father and the Dean of the College that are important, either. It is Pope Innocent and Cardinal Lawrence; it is Vincent and Thomas, at their cores, though she tries not to think this too loudly. They are the Church; they are the future of the Church. Agnes would see them through to that future no matter what it demands of any of them.

Crossing herself, Agnes takes the moment to offer a prayer to God for Thomas and Innocent both. She considers this to be a universal prayer, and she pushes herself into it— her heart, her soul, her blood pumping harder for it.

The moment passes, and Agnes switches off the kitchen lights before retreating to her rooms. She resists the urge to cross by Thomas’s door— or the papal apartment. When they need her— If they need her— they will come, or God will ask, and she will offer herself once more then.

For now, she must rest.

Though, once she is in her room, sleep is difficult in coming. She prays for the world, for her Sisters, for herself, for the Church, for the Pope, for his cardinal, and falls asleep in God’s arms halfway through a plea for the Holy Father’s burdens to ease, hands that just held his clasped around her rosary.

Chapter Text

deacon asumi o’sullivan

Asumi has only been a deacon for a few weeks, now.

This morning, they are due to perform their first baptism.

It is a difficult thing, navigating the Church the way that they do, the way that they have to. Of course, everything within them must remain within them; to everybody else in the Church— to everybody else in Asumi’s life, to everybody in the world— they are not them at all. Their name remains the same, but their identity— who they are— must be a secret, never to be revealed.

There is such shame in being themself. They have no place, they cannot be, they— they do not exist within the Scripture; they are not allowed to, nor encouraged to, nor even truly believed to exist at all, to so many people that preach love and understanding and acceptance of every soul without limit.

They nearly did not want to join the Church at all. There was a time, even, when they considered leaving it altogether, but—

The idea of a world without God and the Holy Spirit seems so empty to them. There is God everywhere they go, but they feel him so strongly when they are within the walls of a church, as if held in God’s embrace, and there— they can see Him, can feel Him, and a part of them wants to believe this would be impossible if God had truly turned from them. If they were not allowed to, or encouraged to, or believed to exist, then how could God be with them at all? And if there are others like them within the Church— Asumi feels a responsibility to serve them in a way they have never been served.

Realizing that they are meant to baptise a baby— that they are meant to take one of God’s precious creatures in their hands and be the one to welcome them into the Church they love and fear so deeply— has kept Asumi up all night, their stomach in knots. Would the child know, as soon as they touched, what Asumi is, who they are? Would their innocence react? Would they instinctively understand that they are other?

Asumi attempts to sleep, curled on their side in their thin bed at Saint John’s Cathedral just outside of Boston, and finds themself unable.

The next morning, when they drag themself to join in breakfast, they find the other clergy practically buzzing around the tables and counters and kitchens, all in excited conversation with one another. There’s a palpable thrill in the air that Asumi briefly believes is due to their scheduled baptism; they take a confused moment to wonder why anyone else would be so excited and twisted-up about it as they are.

Oh, they remember, a heartbeat later. They are meant to be receiving an important guest today as well, potentially a new member of their clergy; Asumi had nearly forgotten, so focused on their agonizing over the baptism as they’ve been. There were rumors, even, that this guest was coming all the way from the Sistine— though why anyone would leave there by choice, Asumi can only begin to imagine.

“Did you see?” asks Clara, one of the Sisters Asumi gets along best with. She loves to talk, and Asumi never minds listening; she was, in fact, the one who first informed Asumi of the rumored Vatican origin story for their guest. “About Innocentius?”

That pulls Asumi up short, and they frown slightly. “About the Holy Father? What about him?” A sick twist wrenches their stomach, and they ask, “Has he already died?”

“Oh, no,” Clara insists. “Oh, he’s far too young for that, don’t you think? Or—” She pauses, then turns to the two Sisters conversing beside her, Yasmin and Valerie. “Can we still say that?”

“I don’t know what else to say,” Yasmin says, voice hard. The stone in Asumi’s gut is gathering weight, though they’re uncertain why. “What else is there?”

“What are you talking about?” they ask, unsettled.

Asumi knows that they are not the only one who has felt inspired and moved by the ascension of Pope Innocent XIV. If it weren’t for him, they truly may have left the Church already. The Holy Father has been such a bright and guiding light in such dark and troubled times; there have been countless times that Asumi has found themself whispering under their breath to say a prayer to the Holy Father— and, even occasionally, for the Holy Father.

Of all people within the Church, astoundingly, he seems to be the most— holy. It sounds trite to say, ridiculous, obvious, but it’s true. There’s a divinity in him, Asumi can tell. Everyone can tell, they assume; that’s why he was elected Pope, surely.

Then, there is this— this feeling Asumi gets, sometimes. A kinship with the Holy Father that they do not fully understand, but— they do know that it fills them up inside, that they look to him and they feel that the Church is the beautiful, loving place Asumi believes it to be, wants it to be, is attempting to make it be. It even seems like he feels the same.

And sometimes—

Sometimes, Asumi sees footage of His Holiness with that other cardinal— Cardinal Lawrence— and they feel—

They feel.

There is a movement between them, a gravity that Asumi thinks they recognize. It might be inappropriate to acknowledge it— even to themself, where God can still hear— but they feel it in their bones, all the same. They know love when they see it.

And if the Holy Father can love one of his cardinals— and can touch the dying with his bare hands, and can break off from his security to lift children onto his hip, and can send himself to the most remote parts of the world just to help— then why can Asumi not do these things? Is he not meant to be the Lord’s model on Earth? Is Asumi not good with God, if His vessel and representative on Earth sees them as fit? Can Asumi not live in his image— which appears to be so very similar to His?

“Look, see?” Clara tells them, breaking them from their moment of frightened consideration. She passes over her cell phone, open to an article headline that makes Asumi’s vision briefly splotch out in patches of black. “Isn’t that something?”

“So, is he a boy or a girl?” Yasmin asks.

“Neither, I think,” Clara answers. “Or— both?”

Yasmin’s tone shifts, though Asumi can’t look up from the phone long enough to gauge if her expression does, as well. “Can you even do that?”

“It is not our place to question the Holy Father,” Valerie says firmly, forever the rule-follower. “This is private information that should have been between His Holiness and God. We have no business—”

“Yes, well, but we do now, don’t we?” Clara interrupts.

Asumi hears all of this with half an ear, in the back of their head, barely conscious of it. The bulk of their attention is focused on devouring the words underneath their hands, reading, “…reveal of Pope Innocent XIV’s biology and intersexuality…” as if in a dream, unable to understand the words. The first feeling they are seized with is fear, pure and simple and unfiltered; it scores through them raw, as if the article is about them, as if the entire world has discovered who they truly are, rather than Pope Innocent. It is a sympathy pain, ripping across each of their nerve endings, and they could cry for imagining how the Holy Father might feel right now. He is, after all, still a person, isn’t he?

The next feeling that surges into Asumi, though, is love.

They can hardly account for it, only that it is accompanied by sensations of belonging and kinship that feel unfair, when they have only observed the Holy Father from afar. They respect him, admire him, pray to him; they do not know him.

But—

But, he is, in his way, like Asumi, then, is he not? He is not a boy or a girl, not as they are so typically defined and described, especially within the Church; he is something else entirely, and they want so badly to kneel at his feet, to tell him what this means, to beg him to touch them with his holy hands and bless them as he has been blessed.

Reading through blurring vision, Asumi skims down in the article, picks up again at: “…for comment, Pope Innocent XIV had this to say through the Vatican Press Office: ‘I am what God made me.’ This was the full and complete statement issued. Reports indicate a more detailed statement may come in the following days as the Vatican Press Office determines the path forward. The Holy Father has been vocal about his struggles in the past— one imagines now not only the outward violence done to him in wartime before his ascension to the Throne of St. Peter, but the inward violence he has experienced within himself. The idea that such a figure can continue in his faith to such an elevated degree leads one to wonder whether the Church will enter a new era today by the firm hand of fate. Article to be updated as statements arrive from within the…”

Asumi is distantly aware of the sound of intense water rushing in their ears, as if all the blood in their body is scorching through their veins at top possible speed. Their chest clenches, and their eyes dart back up, nearly of their own accord, seeking out those same words again.

I am what God made me.

“—mi? Asumi? Deacon O’Sullivan?” Clara says, clearly a repetition, and Asumi blinks, looking up towards her. “Are you alright? I’m sure the Church won’t crumble, don’t worry. If we could endure everything in—”

“Please, attention!” Archbishop Bell calls from his place near the stovetop, clapping his hands together. “If you would please settle down and take your seats for breakfast, you might remember we are welcoming a guest this morning.”

Halfway in a trance, Asumi claims the chair they always take, though they note that the place beside them is empty today. It is typically the seat that Valerie chooses to occupy, but now, there is a small white card on the placemat there that reads Reserved. in small, neat handwriting.

“Deacon O’Sullivan, Deacon Cartwright,” Archbishop Bell gains their attention and that of the deacon on the other side of the empty chair. He pauses there, just behind their chairs, and Asumi glances up to see him beside—

Oh.

Oh, they know that face.

“Cardinal Lawrence,” Asumi greets him, rising to their feet, startled into unbecoming informality. “You— Is the Holy Father here, as well?”

The man standing behind them is undoubtedly Thomas Cardinal Lawrence. Asumi has seen him countless times, and most frequently— if not always— at the side of Pope Innocent XIV. He looks—

Well, he doesn’t look particularly well, Asumi notes with a hint of concern. His color seems faded, moreso than they remember from photographs and videos of him, and there are dark circles under his eyes. His shoulders seem curved in, his spine hunched, a sallow and exhausted cadaver of a thing, and Asumi’s heart chimes with a pang as his brow furrows and his lips twist down, all just the slightest movements.

Of course, Asumi thinks. He is always with the Pope, so— If this news is breaking today— surely His Holiness is here as well, alongside his companion, though why they wouldn’t be told the Pope is coming—

“Deacon O’Sullivan, you forget yourself,” Archbishop Bell warns them with a heavy-handed note of scolding. “Greet—”

“No, no, it’s— it’s alright,” Cardinal Lawrence stops him. His watery blue eyes skim over Asumi, pale and flat. “The Holy Father is at home— He is still at the Vatican, I mean. I would assume.” After a pause, he says, “Thank you for welcoming me here, Deacon O’Sullivan, Deacon Cartwright. Archbishop Bell,” he adds, inclining his head.

Cardinal Lawrence is still dressed as a cardinal, though the fabric seems to hang off of him; his cross catches the early morning light through the kitchen window and piercing Asumi’s left pupil for a moment. When their vision clears, he seems all the more exhausted.

“Of course— It’s a pleasure, Your Eminence,” Asumi says, attempting to remember themself, dipping their own chin down, their eyes falling. “Forgive me. The Archbishop is correct, I forget myself. It’s only that I’m— I am just so pleased to have you here. I have looked up to you for some time.”

This seems to confuse the cardinal more than upset him, and he asks, “Have you, now? I wasn’t expecting this. Please— Sit with me.”

Asumi is only too happy to do so, though they cannot help but study the lines of Cardinal Lawrence’s face, the tired wear that seems to have soaked into him. It does not escape their notice that he does not so much as pick up his silverware when one of the Sisters places a plate of fried eggs and hashbrowns in front of him.

“They told us we had an important guest coming,” Asumi informs him, hesitant to begin eating themself before Cardinal Lawrence starts. “I couldn’t have imagined it would be the Dean of the College of Cardinals.”

“Ah, well.” Cardinal Lawrence’s eyes are on his plate, even if his fork is not. “I am less a guest than a— a transfer. And certainly I am no longer the Dean, as it is. If the Holy Father sees fit to call me back, I would, of course, go, but right now, this is what is best for him— and for the Church—”

“Wait— What?” Asumi asks. “I’m sorry, just— What do you mean, you aren’t even Dean anymore? Why not?”

Cardinal Lawrence pauses for a long enough length of time that Asumi regrets asking at all. The others sat around them seem to notice the uncomfortable silence; Yasmin attempts to initiate conversation with seatmates nearer to her to fill it, though Asumi is only focused on the cardinal.

Just as they are about to take the question back and apologize, Cardinal Lawrence confesses to them, “We believed it would be best if I… grant the Holy Father a degree of space. He has never experienced the papacy without me. I fear that I was— becoming something of a bu—”

“And you’ve seen the news, then?” Clara asks, an inappropriate note of excitement in her voice. Almost as an afterthought, she tacks on, “Your Eminence.”

At this, Cardinal Lawrence appears more than confused. He actually seems, for a moment, terrified, and Asumi watches him straighten out and upright to ask, “What news would that be?”

“About the Holy Father,” Clara continues, and what little color was left in the cardinal’s face drains. “And his— Well. You know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Cardinal Lawrence answers, small and clipped.

For a brief moment, for reasons they will never understand, he then glances at Asumi, and they decide without thinking to open their mouth.

“Cardinal Lawrence, I— I know this is abrupt, but I have my first baptism this morning, and if I didn’t confess beforehand, I would— would feel unworthy of the task.” Asumi pushes their plate away, asks, “Would you take my confession?”

“Deacon O’Sullivan, surely—” Archbishop Bell starts to rebuke them, but Cardinal Lawrence lifts a hand, quiet and gentle and silencing.

“Of course,” he agrees, and he stands. An instinct drives Asumi to offer him their arm, and he takes it, seeming shaky on his legs. “Thank you, Deacon.”

“Of course,” they echo, guiding him away from the table. “We can speak there.”

There’s a stiffness to Cardinal Lawrence’s movements, a stilted nature to the way he walks. Still, he remains quiet until they have left the kitchen— then still as they cross the hall, go up the short set of stairs, and enter the cathedral proper.

It is only there that Cardinal Lawrence asks, “Deacon, what news is there of the Holy Father?”

Asumi hesitates, then assures him, “I will tell you when we arrive at the confessional booth, Your Eminence. I promise you.”

Cardinal Lawrence’s worried eyes examine them for a long moment before he nods. He allows them still to guide him to the confessional, and then still to permit him within, each of them taking either side.

Exhaling, heart pounding, feeling as if they are walking through a strange yet specific dream, Asumi makes the Sign of the Cross before whispering, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was three days ago.”

“Three days?” Cardinal Lawrence asks, surprise overtaking his concern for a moment. “What do you feel so urgently to confess after only three days?”

“It is not what I have done in these three days,” Asumi tells him, “but what I have continued to do in them.”

There is a pause.

Then, Cardinal Lawrence encourages them, “Go on, my child.”

“We were granted the Commandments,” Asumi confesses, “to guide our way, and yet I— I— I have broken the most grievous of them. I have borne false witness.” Silence. “I confess that I have lied to everyone, for my entire life. Save for myself, and for God. I have told everyone that I am as they believe they see me— that I am a man, that I am precisely as I was believed to be at birth. This is not the truth.”

After another, longer, heavier pause, Cardinal Lawrence asks, “And what is the truth, then?”

There is a long moment where Asumi cannot speak. The words they have thought so many times are filling their throat, and this is confessional— Cardinal Lawrence cannot break this oath between them, this solemn and private vow— but he can— he can still ruin them if he chooses, and they are deciding to trust him on an impulse, and—

And God is in impulses, they think. God is all around them; God has always guided them. The Holy Spirit fills them now, and pushes them into speaking, “I’m not a man. I’m not— not a woman, either. I—” They remember those vital words with clarity, and echo, “I am what God made me.”

“This is not a sin,” Cardinal Lawrence whispers back without hesitating now, voice low and urgent. “This is not, do you understand me?”

There is a thickness in Asumi’s throat that chokes them, a burn in their eyes that scalds, a prickling in their sinuses that stings. “I did not, but— but I believe I am beginning to.”

“Good,” he tells them. “Good, you—” There is a beat before he asks, voice shredded thin, “Why did you say that? Wh— What does this have to do with V— His Holiness?”

Asumi is quiet for a moment.

Then, they tell him, “We— I read his statement. About his— his body. Him being intersex—”

“No,” Cardinal Lawrence cuts them off. “N— No, what do you mean? Why— Why have you— Who—”

“It was in the news,” Asumi tells him, a bit shocked into a quick response by the severity of his reaction. “I only just read it this morning. But— Cardinal Lawrence, you—”

There is a hitch of breath on the other side of the screen. Asumi cuts themself off, looks towards the sound, alarmed.

“…Cardinal Lawrence?” they ask, hesitant. “Are you alright?”

Into the quiet, there is another soft, ragged inhale.

Cardinal Lawrence speaks only a moment later, a shiver through every word. “I left him. He— I— I was guilty of— guilty—” There is a muffled shuddering of a sound, hidden behind his hand and the screen both. “I thought it would be best, he thought— he agreed to—”

A lower noise, pained, as if attempted to muffle further. Asumi cannot imagine what he is doing on his side.

“He is alone,” Cardinal Lawrence whispers. “I— I cannot—”

“You and the Holy Father,” Asumi interrupts him, feeling regret as they act and yet unable to stop themself, “I— I cannot tell you— I see you. I see myself in you, Cardinal Lawrence, you— you and Innocent. If this is the Pope— I belong, too, don’t I? And you, and him?” After a moment of trembling silence, they repeat, “Do we not all belong in his Church, Cardinal Lawrence?”

Silence. Asumi hears a fly buzz near their head, though they cannot see it when they turn towards the noise.

“I have to call him,” Cardinal Lawrence murmurs. “Deacon, I— I—”

“Please,” Asumi stops him. They consider this, then tell him, “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

Cardinal Lawrence does not speak.

“What is my penance?” Asumi prompts him. “I have sinned for over thirty years, Your Eminence. Not only these past three days.”

“You have done no such thing,” Cardinal Lawrence insists. “None.” He pauses for only a beat before saying, “As penance, you must— must accept that there is no sin committed in living as yourself. If you lie between the world’s certainties— this is a beautiful thing. You must know this to be true. As— As penance.”

Another shuddering breath, shared between them.

“I will,” Asumi agrees. “God, forgive me for misunderstanding You. I— I—” Their breath hitches, too, and they cannot finish the words, but they know God can hear them in their head all the same.

“Deacon,” Cardinal Lawrence says, voice soft. “You are going to be alright.” Then, a bit more firmly, “Now, would you show me to a telephone?”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” Asumi answers, hurrying to wipe at their eyes and move to open the door on the cardinal’s side of the booth, finding him similarly flushed and wet-cheeked and red-eyed. Managing a small laugh, Asumi adds, “My apologies for our meeting like this, Cardinal Lawrence. I promise, this is actually very exciting for me. It’s really an honor to meet you in person.”

Cardinal Lawrence reaches out, grasps Asumi’s hand between both of his, holds them tight. That same burning rises up in Asumi again, and they exhale slowly, breathing through it.

“And I you,” Cardinal Lawrence replies. Asumi can’t help but feel that he means it; perhaps God is guiding them once more. “I think the Holy Father would, too.”

Asumi can only nod, unable to speak, breathless. Words do not come, not in the moment, and so they settle for escorting Cardinal Lawrence to the phone in the Archbishop’s secretary’s office, studying him all the while in profile, in glimpses, and feeling the Holy Spirit alongside them. It is cleansing, and— for the first time since they learned of it— Asumi’s fears around the baptism later this morning begin to fade.

For the first time, for all their fears, they think they feel truly ready to bring life into the Church.

Chapter Text

guadalupe benítez

The last face that Guadalupe expected to see when the white smoke erupted from the chimney and the balcony doors overlooking St. Peter’s Square opened was her older brother’s.

At that point, Vincent hadn’t been in contact with her for a little over a year, though not by his own preference. He had promised her that he would be safe when he left to serve abroad, that God would watch over him, but that communication with anyone would be unsafe for him to attempt. She knew not to expect him to call her or send her mail. His reassurances hadn’t been enough to keep her from worrying, but then— she’s always worried about Vincent, as much as she knows he once worried about her.

Likely, he still worries about her, even after decades and often from the other side of the world. If she knows her brother— and she likes to think she still does, even if he belongs to so many others now, and so wholly to God— he has never let the distractions around him, however many there may be, take his full attention away from what matters most to him.

At first, it had seemed like a dream. When she had finally been able to get on the phone with him— her screen lighting up every second with calls and texts from everybody she knew, just as bewildered as she had been to see Vinnie step out and be announced as Pope Innocent XIV— he had still sounded so much like himself over the wires that she could hardly believe it was true.

She had wept to hear his voice, then. To know he was alive had been one thing, a swelling wave of relief; to realize he had been trapped in an entirely new place and position, now for the rest of his life and against his own choice, had torn at something inside of her.

As always, he had tried to reassure her; as always, she still had the knot of worry in her chest for her brother. He may be older, but he was always more reckless, as well. If she had a wish for every time she heard him say, ‘Of course I can do this, I have you, me, and God on my side,’ he would never have left home in the first place— she would have wished for him to remain safely with her forever.

Of course, Vincent was never going to stay. He had always been shined on by God, she knew this. She could not even envy it; her brother was so filled with kindness that her brief rebellious stint against him in her youth had only ended in him being so gentle with her frustrations that she confessed all to him anyway.

He had hugged her, then. She misses how he used to hug her. Nobody else is quite the same.

Though Vincent has since come to see her and her wife and sons— two grand visits to where she now lives in Monterrey, and one in secret, himself and his friend disguised as they snuck out to her without a whole papal celebration around the brief occasion.

It had been that last visit Guadalupe enjoyed best. She had never seen her brother so happy as when he had visited her with his friend Thomas, seeming so light and joyous and reminiscent of the brother she remembered. He even hugged him the same way, throwing himself into it as he does. Just seeing them together had made her feel good; Thomas hugged her brother back so tightly. It’s been a reassurance to know he has someone who loves him looking out for him at the Vatican.

When she heard that Thomas Lawrence was now in America, though— reassigned, brought to some small parish up north— she had started to once again feel that same fear that she feels so often for Vincent.

On their weekly phone calls, he sounds strained, exhausted. She asks after his health and well-being, and he only gives platitudes; she tries to inquire about what happened with Thomas, and he remains unwilling to discuss it where he might be overheard.

Of course— of course— this all happens at just about the same time that her brother’s body became news, when she— she opened her email one morning and saw countless headlines with Vincent’s papal name splashed across them and information about him that only he and his doctor should have, that Guadalupe has kept secret since her brother informed her of this after his ascension to the papacy.

It made her sick. In the moment, she had not been able to think more deeply about Thomas’s absence; all she could think was that her brother was alone, and going through such unexpected hardship in front of the whole world, and Thomas Lawrence wasn’t even there for him like she had trusted him to be.

She had spoken with her wife, and Gabi had agreed with her, and Guadalupe had been on the first plane to Italy before noon, passport in hand.

If she was expecting a fight by the time she arrived at the Vatican, she did not receive one. She had to cover up more than she expected before they would allow her inside but, once there, she was brought directly to a cardinal who clasped her hand tightly between his own.

“Signora Benítez, we are so glad to welcome you here,” the man tells her. He is at least two heads taller than her, though he hunches in as if to make himself seem smaller; his eyes are kind behind his glasses, and she knows who he is just as he says, “I’m Cardinal O’Malley. Please, you can call me Ray.”

“Ray,” Guadalupe repeats, recognizing him exactly. “It is so wonderful to meet you. My brother just adores you, you know?”

An immediate rush of bright-red color fills Ray’s face, and Guadalupe can’t help but smile. Reaching up, she settles her other hand over the back of Ray’s and squeezes lightly.

“It is an honor to assist him,” Ray tells her. After a beat, he tilts in closer to her and adds in a confidential stage-whisper, “I’m rather fond of him, too.”

“He just brings it out in you, doesn’t he?” Guadalupe asks. “He’s always been this way.”

“I cannot imagine him any other way,” Ray says, and Guadalupe feels he means it. She understands; she feels the same. “Come with me. He told me to bring you to him straight away upon your arrival.”

“Please, I would hate to interrupt him,” Guadalupe hedges, hesitant, even as she starts following after Ray. “I’m sure he is quite busy—”

“He said to me, and this is a direct quote, ‘I am never too busy for my family, just as God would never be too busy for His,’” Ray informs her.

This is punctuated with a sidelong glance, and Guadalupe laughs. “It’s difficult to argue with him when he makes a point like that, isn’t it? He’s always done that, too. Don’t let him dance around you with his words, he just gets trickier the more tangled you get.”

Ray reaches out to thread Guadalupe’s arm through his, squeezing lightly at her hand.

“I wish you had come to visit long before now,” he tells her, and she laughs again. “His Holiness will be delighted to see you. He’s spoken of little else in the last few days.”

This only reminds her, of course, of the other events of the last few days, and she looks to Ray with renewed gravity and sobriety. He seems to sense the shift in mood and tone; of course, he does. Everything Vincent has told her about Ray is that he is incredibly observant, always vigilant, and has something of a knack for discovering secrets and reading people.

“How has he been?” Guadalupe asks, voice lowered in a more genuine way.

Ray tips his head as if considering her question; she wonders how his zucchetto does not fall off.

“He has been… taxed,” he eventually says, a diplomatic answer. “This has been unexpected, to say the least. I believe he knew it would come eventually, we just— We weren’t quite prepared for it to happen right now.”

Guadalupe’s hold on Ray tightens as he escorts her out of the cavernous, ornate halls of St. Peter’s Basilica and back outside into the sunshine.

“Is he alone?” she asks. “He speaks so fondly of you, has— You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”

“I do what I can,” Ray answers. “We all do. But none—”

He stops short. She glances up towards him to find the blood vessels in his face burning a brighter red, all rough blush like he’s on some Irish cliffside and not leading her through the Vatican Gardens to a cluster of small buildings just beyond.

“But none of you are Thomas?” she finishes, letting her voice lilt up like it’s a question. Even knowing she already has the answer.

For a long moment, Ray does not speak.

Then, he tells her, “Cardinal Lawrence is— is deeply missed by us all.”

“Why did he leave here?” she asks of him, impulsive, reckless in her fear for her brother. “It wasn’t— wasn’t because of my brother’s news abou—”

“No,” Ray stops her. “Forgive me for interrupting you, I just— No, he— he and I were the only other ones here who knew already. That would not have been new information for him.”

It doesn’t make any sense, then. She cannot determine why the man she met— the one who would not stop orbiting her brother, who pulled out every chair and fed him every meal and laughed at every joke, who looked at him with sparkling eyes like he had hung the moon, not God—  would choose to leave Vincent’s side.

“I do not understand,” she asks. “Why would he leave him? I thought he loved him.”

Ray stops short, looking down at her, haloed by the sun overhead. She is drawn to a sudden halt, though he steadies her seemingly without thinking; his eyes fix on her when she looks up at him, his brow furrowed behind his glasses, and he makes a cold, clammy sweat start to prickle over her skin.

“What?” she asks. “Did he not?”

“No, he—” Ray begins, then cuts himself off with, “You— Please, be careful when you say things like that. It’s—” He sighs, then glances over his own shoulder. Guadalupe does the same, and sees nobody but two members of that vibrantly-dressed Guard that follows everyone around, here. They’re at a distance enough that Ray apparently feels comfortable in returning his attention to her and whispering, “It is a large part of why Thomas felt the need to… leave.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in before Guadalupe asks, bewildered, “Because he loves my brother?”

“Yes, yes,” Ray says, more hushed, and she lowers her voice accordingly.

“But why?” she asks.

This question seems to give Ray pause. He turns it over for a second, eyes unfocused, before he returns to her and explains, “Thomas— I have known him for a very long time. He has… troubles. And when the Holy Father bore witness to those struggles… After a while, he—” Ray stops, glances skyward, as if it will have the answers. Guadalupe only wishes it did. “From what I understand, he suggested Cardinal Lawrence take a break from his duties.”

That certainly does not sound like her brother, and she asks, “He asked him to leave?”

“No,” Ray insists. “No, far from it— Or— That wasn’t his intention, I believe.”

“Then what did he intend?” she asks him.

“I don’t think he understands,” Ray tells her, a roundabout answer, “that, for Thomas, this is his life. There are no breaks from this. If I’m correct, he understood His Holiness’s request as a— a dismissal, which he— accepted.”

“Why would he do that?” she demands.

There is a pain in Ray that she is not expecting to see, a flicker across his face before he is choking it back. She understands that pain; she feels it for Vincent, too.

“I couldn’t say,” Ray answers. “He was gone before breakfast the next day. I’ve spoken with him since, but he won’t elaborate. Only…”

He trails off, stops. Guadalupe has to pull him back to her with another squeeze to his arm, and his eyes find hers. She thinks she sees a spark of recognition there; it doesn’t surprise her. Her whole life, she’s been told how strongly she resembles her older brother.

Apparently, he trusts Vincent enough to trust her as an extension, and he confesses to her, “Only that he knows this to be for the best for the Holy Father.”

“And is it?” Guadalupe demands.

She knows the answer even before Ray speaks it. “No. I don’t believe it is.”

“And you’ve told him this?”

“He won’t hear it,” Ray replies, and she can hear the strain in his voice, too, though far less familiar than her brother’s. “Says he’s been too close, that this is a necessary adjustment period for the Holy Father. That it will be better this way. Eventually.”

Guadalupe studies this man. Her brother told her all about his nose for secrets; she gauges him for a long moment now.

On impulse— too trusting, perhaps, or maybe not enough— she tells him, “I have a wife.”

Ray blinks, then tells her, “I know. Gabriela. And two children—”

“I’m a lesbian,” she states, direct. Ray furrows his brow.

“I know,” he repeats.

“And this doesn’t bother you?” she asks.

“No.” His brow furrows. “Did you believe it would? Has His Holiness said I—”

“No,” she stops him, before he can derail too far. “I just wanted to see if you understood.”

There’s a moment where Ray seems confused— and then his expression opens up with clarity. “Ah.”

Guadalupe takes a step closer to him. To his credit, he does not back away, though she’s sure most of the clergymen here would.

“Your brother is safe with me,” he tells her, and she feels that he means it.

Squeezing his arm, she answers, “Then bring Thomas Lawrence back here.”

“Every day, I try,” he says. Glancing upwards, towards that nearer cluster of buildings again, he asks at speaking volume, “Shall we?”

Even these little structures are ornate, unlike the hard-looking newer offices and lodgings that they passed by earlier. Ray opens a small white gate, leading her inside a white-stone building with heavy red curtains obscuring every window, blocking outsiders’ view of in.

Once he’s unlocked the door with a series of gold keys off a large ring in his pocket, though, she can hear her brother’s voice echoing within.

“…endure well enough,” she hears. His tone sounds passionate, worked-up, though she can’t yet tell if he’s upset or excited. His volume is uncharacteristically loud, and Ray hurries her inside a small white entry room, shoving the door shut behind them. He’s snapping the locks as Vincent, deeper in the little building, insists to someone, “Of course, I do! This is tiring. I want to do my work. It feels as if nobody listens to me, but— Thomas, how can I do anything outside of me if people will not stop focusing so much on what is inside of me? What am I meant to do?”

Guadalupe’s eyes find Ray’s, the both of them wide and hot-faced as Ray motions her further inside. She is led down a narrow hallway, closer to Vincent’s voice, until Ray is rapping his knuckles against a closed white door.

“Just a moment,” Vincent says, quieter. His footsteps are light, even; the door creaks open a moment later, and Vincent looks up at Ray before his eyes drop down to Guadalupe and his face lights up with joy and surprise. “Lupita!”

“Vinnie,” she says, opening her arms.

“Thomas, Lupita has arrived, I will call you tonight,” Vincent says into the phone pressed to his ear. After a beat, he says, “Me, too. Soon, Thomas.”

He beeps a button to hang up his call, receiver clenched in his hand and his arms already lifting as he repeats, “Lupita— You’re here, I am so happy to see you.”

Stepping forward, she slots them together, and her brother wraps around her, and she sighs, finally settling into him. This is the hug she’s been waiting for for so, so long, and she is reassured to feel him whole in her arms— though too thin, she thinks, and bonier than she’d like.

He’s in papal garb, a relatively simple outfit compared to the full regalia, but still a white-and-gold enhancement on his old usual blacks with dashes of white. Still, he smells like himself, and she inhales the scent past everything to ground herself in him. When he rocks her back and forth, she tightens her grip, hanging on tighter.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“I can promise you, I’ve missed you even more,” he replies. Separating them, he insists, “Come in, come sit with me. Ray, would you mind—”

“I’ll ask the Sisters for refreshments,” Ray says, before Vincent can ask, tilting his head. His eyes catch on Guadalupe’s for a split instant, meaningful, before he moves to leave, allowing them space alone.

“Come in,” Vincent repeats, stepping back to allow her inside. This room seems actually lived-in, the walls lined with heavy wood bookshelves filled to bursting, interspersed with red-curtained windows. A massive desk stands at one end with a large, old-looking carved wooden chair behind it; Vincent crosses back to this desk, replacing the phone receiver in the cradle at the center of a cacophony of scattered papers, opened books, pens with nearby smears of ink. “I apologize for the mess.”

“We shared a room for a decade. I’m used to your mess,” she reminds him, teasing, fond. She truly has missed him.

The room is taken in easily; her brother, not so much. Studying him brings her a pang in the chest. His face is lined, his eyes shadowed, his shoulders slumped. He seems tired, drawn, worn-out. The joy and levity she witnessed in him during his last secret visit are gone, and a new weight has settled on him, heavier than any she has seen him bear.

Now that the study door is closed, though, he is no longer the Pope; he seems Vincent again, though in papal clothes.

Vincent does not take the seat at the desk. Instead, he motions to a brown leather sofa set before a short tea table, asks, “Would you like to sit?”

When they are sat side-by-side on the worn cushions, she can examine him more closely, and she comments, “You look exhausted. Are you sleeping enough? You’re not eating, are—”

“Lupita, please,” he stops her, catching her hand with one of his. “You always worry about me.”

“Because you’re always worrying me,” she counters. Reaching up with her free hand, she traces the creases at the corners of his eyes, the new crow’s feet that were not there the last time she saw him. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s happened.”

Vincent looks her over for a long moment. There is such a depth to his eyes, there always has been; it is as if she is sucked in while he thinks, released only when he allows, “Alright.”

He holds her hand throughout telling her of a nurse uncovering his secrets after a physical and selling the information; he explains his own discovery of this leak, when Ray had practically broken down his door before dawn that day to show him the headlines and talk him through his reaction and prepare him to handle this and release a statement as quickly as possible; he tells her of the Curia’s split on what to do, though he tells her, “Nothing will be done. I am where God wants me to be and I am as He made me, as I said. This will pass as all things do,” as if this concern is fleeting; he—

He does not, she notices, talk of Thomas Lawrence.

It is not until he is confessing, “I know that I ought to have more patience, but I am tired of people focusing on this the way they are. If it might encourage people— If it might help people to understand those of us that are not so—” that Ray returns with a knock at the door.

Vincent sighs, his hand coming up to run through his hair, catching at the back of his head. His eyes remain fixed low before he glances up towards her again.

“Come in,” he says, and the door opens to allow Ray inside once more. “Thank you so much, Ray. Would you like to join us?”

“I won’t intrude,” Ray insists. “If you’d like to share supper tonight, though, I’d be very glad for it.”

“Dinner it is,” Vincent agrees.

“I will see you then, Your Holiness,” Ray replies, setting a tray on the tea table before them: a condensation-dotted pitcher of lemonade beside two glasses and a small plate of cornetti with all different fillings, cream and jam and chocolate and cheese. “Signora Benítez.”

“Cardinal O’Malley,” she replies. “It was lovely to meet you in person. I’m looking forward to dinner.”

“As am I, Signora,” he answers with an inclination of his head. His eyes meet first Guadalupe’s, then Vincent’s, laden with meaning, before he is gone again, closing the office door behind him.

Vincent is already pouring lemonade into a glass for Guadalupe, passing it off to her before setting the pitcher down.

Frowning, she asks, “You won’t have any yourself?”

“I am not hungry right now,” he tells her. Her frown deepens, and she sets her glass down. “No, you ought to—”

“Vincent, where is Thomas?” she asks, and watches the color begin to drain from her brother’s face.

After a long moment where he looks her over, trying to pull information from only her appearance before him, he answers, “Boston, Massachusetts. The United States of America.”

“And why?” she asks. “I don’t understand. When I met him, he seemed so happy with you.”

Vincent’s whole expression seems to break open for hearing this. She watches, surprised, as these words seem to wash over him and take a mask off with them, leaving only her brother behind— raw, exposed, terrified, exhausted, sad.

“Vincent,” she says, urgent, reaching for his hand again. “What is it? What happened?”

He shakes his head, tilting into her, and she wraps her arms around him once more, alarmed. Tightening her grip, rubbing his back, she shifts, twisting into him, trying to pull him into a proper hug. His breath shudders; she can feel his chest shiver with it, suppressed tears that make her adrenaline start pumping.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him, and his arms wind around her, too. “It’s okay, Vinnie, I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

This is her brother. The person who would shout down bullies in the street, even if it drew attention on himself instead; the one who found purpose in the Church and God in the most dangerous places on Earth; the soul who wept through every emotion he felt since before she can remember, all of them forever just too big to fit inside his slight frame.

She can see her brother in the Pope, when he is being official, when he is being Innocent XIV. But this— this is him as she knows him, at his core, and she has missed him so much.

And the fact that she is seeing him again now— seeing him truly— just to see all of this pain? It hurts her, too.

“You cannot tell anyone,” Vincent says, his voice tight, muffled by Guadalupe’s throat.

“I would never,” she replies. Vincent’s breath hitches, and so she adds, “Consider me a confessional,” and he chokes a small, smothered laugh against her. “You’re safe with me, I promise. You, me, and God.”

It’s something they used to say often as children. Alone so often by necessity, their parents working more than anything just so they could survive, there were so many instances where they had to remember that they were not left entirely alone to face this world— that there was still ‘you, me, and God.’

“You, me, and God,” Vincent echoes, taking a deep breath. She can feel it rise and fall, inflating his chest, deflating it a moment later. There is silence. Then, “Thomas is hurting.”

“So are you,” she points out.

“He came to me,” he continues, the words spilling now that he has allowed the floodgates to open. “He— He came to me and spoke of—” His grip on his sister tightens. “He was suffering from guilt. Agony that he could not explain to me. He said that he had become a burden to the papacy, that he felt such shame at being here, he thought he should leave.”

Vincent pulls back from her, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She’s sure hers look identical; she can feel the matching prickle, the burn inside of her, too.

“To protect me,” he adds. “He wouldn’t stop insisting. He— Lupita, he—”

He shakes his head, bringing both hands to his eyes. Taking a long breath, speaking with the heels of his hands still pressed into his eye sockets, he seems to need to gather himself for a moment.

Then, he admits, “I argued with him. I— I raised my voice, I should not have spoken to him the way that I did, but— but he did not understand. And he told me— I could not understand, that he—” His hands drop and he is plaintive, desperate, when he asks her, “How could he think he is anything less than— than a partner to me? A match to my soul? How could he not feel it?” His hand grasps over his heart, as if he wants to take the organ between his fingers and squeeze. “Does he not feel it at all, Lupita? Have I been mistaken?”

“Vincent, look at me,” she tells him, grabbing both of his hands, drawing them away from their tight grip against his chest.

His eyes lift, and he meets her as she’s asked him to do. Considering how best to word this, she takes a moment, then a second; when she has calibrated, she takes a breath, holding his hands firm in her own.

“Do you remember,” she asks, “when I told you Gabi and I wanted to get married? Do you remember what I asked you?”

Vincent does not even hesitate. “You asked if God would be angry with you.”

“Yes,” she replies, feeling relief that he remembers, along with a faded stab of shame that will never, she thinks, quite go away. “I thought that I had pushed too far. I listened too much to people around me who did not feel God the way I did— the way we do. I was so scared that God would turn from me because of who I loved. And do you remember what you told me then?”

This time, Vincent does pause— though, she does not believe he needs to think to remember. He seems to delay himself for another reason entirely.

When he can speak, his voice is soft and rough all at once, answering her with, “‘God is in our love. We could not love without Him. How could He not approve of a pure love like yours?’”

“And I believed you,” she insists to him, “because I knew it to be true. There are three people I have always known would never lie to me.”

“You, me, and God,” Vincent says.

“You, me, and God,” Guadalupe echoes. “That’s right.” She reaches up to cradle her brother’s face in her palm, guiding his attention back to her. “You could not love without God’s presence. He knows already.”

The way Vincent looks at her then is an expression she has never before seen on her brother’s face. She believes it to be shock, and she pulls him into another hug accordingly.

“I am—” he starts, then stops. “He is—”

“You are Vincent,” she interrupts him. “He is Thomas. You are people.”

There are tears in Vincent’s voice that make a lump form in his sister’s throat. “He promised not to taint me. He said he would free me.”

“Tell him you are free with him,” Guadalupe insists. “Remind him—”

“He would not come home if—”

“He would,” Guadalupe argues, and knows this to be true. “He loves you. He left because he loves you, don’t you see that? And he will return because he loves you. You need only ask him— you must tell him.”

Vincent shakes his head, dark eyes now fixed on Guadalupe’s, unrelenting.

“You did not see him,” Vincent whispers to her. “He could not sleep, could not eat. Being here was a torment.”

“You are not eating,” she reminds him. “You are not sleeping. Is it not for the same reasons? Do you think he sleeps better alone in Boston? Do you think he has a better appetite when he is half a world away from you? Do you really think he has stopped feeling love for you just because you are separated?” Tears spill over the brim of her brother’s eyes, race down his cheeks in shining trails. She swipes one river away with her thumb, though it does not stay broken for long; more tears come over the waterfall in an instant. “This will kill you both. You cannot let it.”

His crying hitches his chest, and he tells her, “It would be selfish to ask him back now.”

“It is not God’s will that he be gone,” Guadalupe insists. “You love him, Vincent.” He cries harder for this, but she does not relent. This is something he needs to hear aloud, and she fears nobody else would— could say it to him. “You are allowed. It is okay. God is not angry. He brought you together for a purpose.”

“I told him to go,” Vincent admits, the smallest and most torn-up of confessions. “I would not keep him here unhappily, of course not, but— It was— It was more than that. I was hurt, I— I said he should leave.” His hand trembles in hers. “It’s unforgivable.”

“He asked to leave,” she points out. “Would you consider him unforgivable?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he says, and she all but crushes his hand in hers. “But—”

“‘God is in our love,’” she repeats. His eyes slip shut, his head bowing over their joined hands, and she continues to stroke his tears away. “‘We could not love without Him. How could He not approve of a pure love like yours?’”

Pope Innocent XIV and Vincent Benítez are not that different, not really— but there is an intimacy here, a personal edge, a vulnerability that he does not have when he is the Pope. This is her brother, and he is shaking before her, as if they are children sitting on the edge of his bed again in the night and not the Pope and his sister with decades of life behind them.

“You have given so much,” Guadalupe whispers to him. “Take back what is yours.” When Vincent starts to protest, she stops him with, “Ask him. Bring him home to you. I know he misses you, too. He loves you.”

Those words seem to draw Vincent up short, and his breath shudders again.

“He does,” she insists before her brother can argue. “I know he loves you.”

For a long, long moment, he is completely silent.

Then, he asks, voice cracking, “What do I do?”

His eyes lift, meeting hers. They match, though her brother cries more heavily now. She has never seen him so heavily in grief; it informs her answer automatically, as if the Holy Spirit moves through her.

‘You, me, and God.’

“Call him,” she instructs him. Vincent takes a deep breath of the air shared between them. “Call him home.”

Chapter Text

the holy father’s turtles

So many people come and go from this place.

It is so nice and beautiful here. There is calm and quiet, but still with a thrumming undercurrent of pure life that can be felt vibrating in the ground, through the air, within the population. Cool, clean water exists in pools free of predators and disease; regular meals are provided, both from plants that grow and hands that offer. There is nothing more to want.

Good company abounds, as well. So many that speak in gentle voices, touch with soft hands, guide home with pure intentions. The turtles have so much to enjoy here; life is simple, pleasant.

This is, they believe, mostly due to one person, the one in white who comes so often, their most favorite of all people. This person is sometimes accompanied by others, and they sometimes come alone; always, they will talk to and handle the turtles with such kindness. So much, they remind the turtles of their previous person in white, that they cannot help but feel a preference towards them.

Occasionally, others will gather in the garden without the person in white, speaking in low tones, hidden by the relative seclusion of the turtles’ oasis. When the person in white does approach, their animal noises cease, the stillness of startled prey— or, perhaps, of hunting predator, watching a potential meal, something they have tasted or want to. Their sounds are not so pleasant without the person in white as they are with— or as the person in white’s are always, though they are a special case, rare, unique.

There was one for a while who would come along with the person in white. They came with the last person in white, too— the turtles’ previous favorite person— and they cannot help but feel a fondness towards this person in red, as well. The person in red is a favorite of their favorites, after all— an extension of their acceptance and love.

Their gentle hands will often escort the turtles back home, when they escape heaven and roam about in the wild, cold world around them. Their soft words accompany small treats fed from unhesitant fingertips. Their kind treatment comes without restraint or expectation or resistance.

Until their voice, too, got strange and strained.

They were so different from the others— but still, low tones. So low, and so rough, and often so sad, in a way that makes the turtles slow their paces and watch, feeling the rumbles of sound shiver through their garden. Sometimes, the person in red would come alone, shaking small, fresh greens from trembling hands for the turtles before they would sit by the water and weep, or speak to themself, or otherwise sit in total, still silence.

Then, there was that day— that day where they came together, as they often did, the favorite in white and their favorite in red. This time, though, they had been accompanied by a tension that had been admittedly building but had never tasted so thick as it had that day.

That had been the day where the person in red had collapsed before the one in white and begged and pleaded and sobbed with such open anguish that the turtles had been drawn out by the reverberating racket, then repelled by it, uncertain of how to exist near such a dying creature, in its rattling final throes.

They had been there for so long, like that. The horror and the keening and the dying. The turtles had wondered how long it took animals like these to die.

The person in red had never come back, after that.

The person in white still comes— but they are different, now.

Gone is the genuine joy that would bring them springing into the garden; gone is the authentic energy with which they would speak to and handle the turtles; gone is the radiant enthusiasm that had seemed to rain from every part of them. They are a strange thing, now, the same and different all at once, as if they died along with their lost person. The turtles cannot help but grieve with them.

Like the person in red had, their favorite in white will now come so often alone to the turtles, to kneel and speak to them— or to themself. They will come and weep, at times, as the person in red had— and sometimes still, they seem furious, a mad and wild thing seconds from thrashing teeth and slashing claws and howling cries. The turtles are still fed gifts from their hands, but they shake now, as the person in white’s had; the turtles feel a hesitation, wondering if this sickness is catching between animals.

Still, they are unable to stop themselves from following after them, wanting so badly to comfort this creature they love so well. They are so important to them, their favorite of all, their connection to this world; it makes them feel a somber, dreadful sort of melancholy to witness them in this sickness, wasting away.

The turtles attempt to heal their person, as their person has healed them in the past. They bring them little greens, and try to encourage them to water, and bask in the sun at their side. Still, nothing seems to help; still, they continue to shrivel.

It seems that, now, all the turtles can wait for is the day when their person in white will collapse as their person in red had, and they will lose them, too.

So often, too, the person in white sits beside their water, tracing its surface. It is as if they are lost in an underwater sadness, attempting for air upside-down; the turtles are at a loss of how to help anymore, all efforts exhausted, if they cannot be flipped over or retrieved or saved as the turtles can.

Turtles hear about other animals— humans and dogs and snakes. They watch the clouds roll by, and the sun, and the rain, and the moon, and the clouds return again. Everything appears technically as it should be, the cycle nearly in its place, and yet it all feels deeply unsettled, off-kilter, no tright; the person in white grows increasingly unsteady, short in voice and hunched in stature and, more and more often, alone with the turtles, mumbling to them, to themself, to the sky.

It takes time before people start appearing with the person in white again. Some of them are quiet, pacing at their side; some of them are forceful, firm in voice, often even loud. Still others have an intensity to them that makes the person in white soft instead of hard, and they will be there through the night afterward, as if captured by a force invisible to the turtles.

The person in white cries so often, these days— but, less so alone. More often with these others they bring along, people in red and people in purple and people in black. None are the one that has gone and died, but they seem to restore some measure of health to the turtles’ favorite in white.

One day— out of nowhere, it seems, at least to the turtles— the energy shifts.

More aptly, it cracks, as if the air has been thickening and hardening and, suddenly, it has been split open, the atmosphere spilling out a rushing liquid existence through the stifling nothingness that had calcified. The turtles have the sensation of taking full breaths into their tiny lungs in a way they have not been able to in what seems an eternity, and still no time at all.

The person in white comes today, as they do every day. The pained sorrow, though, that the turtles have so closely come to associate with them— and with the person in red before them— has given way to something new-but-not, something— something old and familiar and long since thought lost here.

Excitement.

There’s a vibration in the air, one the turtles have not felt in ages. The person in white has an energy to them, a hop and a bounce to their pacing steps, a lift to their shoulders, a lightness to their animal body. Naturally, the turtles are drawn into them, following in their slow way as their person paces about the garden, from pool to pool, restless.

The general buzz of anticipation seems to spread from the person in white into the air. The entire oasis hums with hopeful suspense; the people that pass through, so many recognizable from the person in white’s side lately, seem to have that same jump to them, as if a storm is coming that they cannot wait to dance in.

The turtles notice the return of the person in red before their favorite in white does.

They had, after all, long considered them dead, but— still, the turtles that have been held by their hands and saved by their love and fed by their fingertips remember the person in red, the one who lived and died before them. Many of them watch, curious and surprised and allured, as the person in red all but stumbles into their garden again, returning once more to heaven from wherever they had been below.

The person in red is the one who lurches forward first. They nearly even make it to touch the person in white before they are making noise, drawing their favorite’s attention, making them turn in a whirl of white as brilliant as the sun blazing above.

Then, the person is a blur, disappearing in a rush for the one in red. For an instant, there is a collision; red and white melt together into one, indiscernible from another, and the turtles cannot determine which is which.

A brief moment later, the two separate— red stains both of them, now, painting their human faces beneath the skin— and then they are speaking at once, making noises over each other.

The turtles bear witness as they laugh, and then become one again, skin and hair and their colors all dissolving into one once more.

They do not seem to want to release each other, gripping and clutching with their hands, their thumbs, the fingers they use to feed the turtles. These they interlock, drawing one another so close the turtles struggle again to distinguish them, escorting one another to the edge of a pond to sit together as they once did.

This, the turtles remember as if no time has passed at all.

Gravitating towards the familiar sight, the turtles are greeted, as they hoped to be, with laughter and treats and bits of greens from the people in white and red both. The crunchy, hard air of sickness and pain and— and something human, indescribable and indefinable to the turtles— has gone, dissipated, and in its place is the warmth and lightness and joy that they remembered from what seems like so long ago, the pain and confusion and loss making time stretch like taffy.

Others come to the person in red— they touch them, clasp them, make to embrace them— but the person in white does not release them, not fully, not once. The turtles observe the territory-marking of these animals, refusing to part from one another, declaring mate and family and pack and home and mine in the ways that every animal can feel in their bellies.

No matter what, the person in red does not leave their garden, not until the sun has long since set. The person in white remains at their side the entire time, holding on tight, making their marks once more.

It is only once they are alone again— once it is only the one in white, the one in red, and the turtles, witnessed by the moon and stars and towering walls of their brilliant, sparkling oasis, rippling water catching small earthbound stars, flames of light— that the white and red intermingle again, a tangle that the turtles do not remember quite so well.

They do know the sounds. They were familiar once, too: weeping, begging, sickness, pain, torment.

This time, though, the person in white stops them hard, fast, firm, clutching the one in red close, closer, until the turtles lose track of the beginning of one and the end of another. Voices cut back and forth, animal noises that make shapes and raw ones that do not, before they are both in tears, faces bowed close, hearts pressed to one another’s.

The turtles do not do all the same things humans do. Their mouths are not meant for what the people’s mouths do, nor do they have hands to touch, nor do they understand quite what is for the creatures to live as they do, to hurt and heal and exist and express in a way so similar to the turtles’ way of life and yet so, so very different.

Still—

Still, there is a universality to them.

The turtles can understand the concept of home, the comfort and security and safety of a place that is theirs, where those that matter to them are, where their family can be safe. They understand unity, they understand family, they understand belonging. They can’t understand everything; they can understand this, at its core.

It is their hope— their shared hope— that the person in red will not leave again, that the person in white will not hurt, that neither of them will die as they did.

There is so little pain here, if they are willing to embrace it; so nice and beautiful, so calm and quiet, with cool, clean water and fresh, regular meals and good, nourishing company, humming with life. They have made such a place for the turtles, their favorite and their favorite’s favorite; they wish— they hope— that they can return some measure of this to them, a mutual symbiotic relationship, a shared strength.

So many people come and go from this place. The turtles, however, prefer it when their person in white and person in red stay here. Things just feel so much naturally better when they are together.

Drawing closer again, circling the intertwined bodies of their favorite animals, the turtles are greeted with laughter and kindness and hands cradling them to kiss and offer treats and rumble human words at them, and they are, like their favorites, returned home.

Chapter Text

janusz woźniak

It has been Janusz Woźniak’s suspicion since the day the offer was made that Thomas Lawrence is a large part of the reason he was reappointed Prefect of the Papal Household. There’s no real sense of obligation between himself and the new Holy Father— and it aches every time, still, the new Holy Father, forever with the qualifier, forever new, because he is forever not his.

There were countless instances— and countless motivations— to remove him from office, Janusz believes. He thinks, he knows. After all, Innocent did so with several others, though most were more demotions than entire removals.

Being asked to stay on had been more than a surprise. And though Thomas often peers over his shoulder— changing this or that on the Pope’s schedule, adjusting that or this on a travel itinerary, always fussing— he feels as though he is trusted still to look after the new Holy Father, as he had once been trusted to look after his own.

It had been more surprising still that he remained even after Thomas Lawrence left. His good word surely was the only reason he had been in place at all; though forever grateful to him for the permanence, the stability, his home, he suspected the whole of it might vanish when Thomas did.

None of it did.

Sometimes, he thinks of going to Innocent. In his lower moments, when his grief swallows him whole and the only thing that will get him through the night is drinking until the pain dulls to a throb, he almost does it. He can see it all in his mind’s eye: he will go to him, shaking and confused, and beg to know why he is kept around, why he is still here, why he is permitted when the soul he dedicated his own to is gone and this new, merciful stranger has taken his place, why?

But he has his meetings, and his methods, and more good days than bad, now. Thomas’s return has made the Vatican bright once more, because the new Holy Father’s flame has been viciously relit. The storm clouds that had gathered are gone, and Janusz worries less, and Innocent no longer insists on packed schedules and constant travel and wearing himself thin.

He does not ever ask. He tries to thank them without the words— he tries to be worthy of the job they have allowed him to keep, in spite of everything— and he thinks they understand.

When their eyes linger on him, too— when they catch him praying beside his portrait of the late Holy Father, the only photograph in his room; when they each listen with encouraging indulgence to his tearful, too-long stories about him; when they take his hands, together and apart, in silent shows of compassion and symphony— he thinks he understands, as well.

They cannot fully know how he feels. They still have each other; but this, perhaps, is how they have come close to the knowledge.

The two of them mean a great deal to him. A great, great deal. If it were not for Thomas Lawrence, he would not be here, where he is today, he knows this to be true— and the same has come to be true of Innocent, as well, strange as it is. As if they have become their own sort of family, here.

They are meaningful to him, as is this place, as is this position, and so Janusz remains as Prefect. It takes up his days, consumes his mind; he prides himself on making Innocent’s appointments, on organizing the household, on coordinating an environment that suits not only the new Holy Father, but all those who make up the household. When visitors reach out, Janusz schedules the appointments. When ambassadors come, letters in hand, Janusz is the one who first meets with them and determines their meeting with Innocent.

And today, it is he who prepares the papal household for Innocent’s return from America.

He— and his Guard, and Thomas, of course, as always— will be returning from the States on Saturday, which means it is Janusz’s responsibility to see that the new Holy Father— still, even after these four years have passed, he continues to remain the new Holy Father, unshakeably— is prepared for the Sunday Papal Angelus. This will be an effort— Innocent can be particularly disagreeable when tired and strictly scheduled suffering from jetlag— but it is one Janusz is more than proud to take on.

In all honesty, he is only halfway paying attention— if even that much— to the television as he works late into the night tonight. The background noise is appreciated; he is not one to sit in silence. He finds it’s much too loud.

The bulk of his attention is on redistributing the appointment requests coming in last-minute for the next week. Innocent will need a bit more recovery time than the slots on the calendar would like to allow. So—

Well, if Janusz creates a couple of false appointments with invented dignitaries so Innocent can have an hour or two to himself here or there, he will do so happily.

And he is so focused on this work that— to be frank, if he hadn’t heard the Pope’s name on the television, filtering through his focus, he may not have looked up at all.

As it is, the moment he hears, “…still coming in regarding an attack made against Pope Innocent XIV today in Dallas, Texas…” the words are coming sudden and clear through a staticky radio he’s attempting to tune, and his head snaps up.

The picture on the screen is all colors and shapes and incoherence, for a moment, before it snaps, clarifying into sense. In Janusz’s rush for the remote control, he abandons his laptop computer and mobile phone and stacks of papers, all things shoved aside on his low tea table so he can turn the volume up on the television set. It’s nearly midnight here at the Vatican, all darkness and still quiet as almost everyone lays themselves to rest, but this means it’s earlier in the States, nearly five in the late afternoon where Innocent is.

Words stream from reporters and journalists and witnesses giving statements, but Janusz pays far more attention to the screen itself in his attempts to understand.

All of the footage, at first, is clear and steady. Obviously the work of professional cameras: Janusz is able to watch as Pope Innocent, backlit by the hot Texas sun in a cloudless sky, moves to ascend a set of metal stairs, bringing him to a platform stage constructed outside at some great grassy-looking meadow of a venue, one of those wide-open American spaces. Thomas, as always, lingers at the bottom of the small staircase, watching him with fond intent; he seems to have color to his skin, brightness in his eyes, a smile to his face. Other people may not notice this— other people rarely notice Thomas, he knows, especially around the new Holy Father— but it is the first thing Janusz notes.

The next is the shifting movement of the Guard around them; as he watches, Innocent stiffens, an instinctive startle-response, and starts to take a step back.

The third is Thomas Lawrence lurching up the steps at an impossible speed, grabbing the new Holy Father by the collars of his papal whites, and all but tackling him backwards, sending them both tumbling off the edge of the stage and out of view.

The last is the explosion that follows.

Out of nowhere, the steady camera shot of the Pope climbing the stage to address the gathered Americans vanishes into an eruption of red-black and screaming and confusion. From there, the camera cuts to a separate, shaky, vertical-filmed shot, clearly taken from the phone recording of someone at the event itself, attempting to film the chaos around them.

Americans will show anything on television, Janusz thinks, his stomach twisting with sick dread as the news report smash cuts again, again, again between different people’s cameras, vantages, viewpoints. It’s a flickering showcase of carnage, confusion, crying and hysterics and Janusz is stumbling upright, trying to pick out the faces he knows in the crowd just as his phone starts ringing on the tea table.

He can’t process it, for a moment. All he can do is stare.

No, he thinks, the only possible option. No, Thomas has been doing so well, he— Everyone has been doing so well, the new Holy Father has been happy and Janusz has been thriving and Thomas has been home, he has finally been home and everything was as right as it could be without— without him, without his Holy Father, and now—

It’s not right. God would not see fit to do this, not now, not just when they were figuring this out, this rhythm, one of the most important in the world.

God would not take them, too.

Janusz has to be certain of this.

Skittering around his tea table, Janusz crouches nearly until his nose is to the screen, searching each tiny face in the footage for information, trying to find—

Thomas.

Thomas, half his face a mess of blood too thick to be seen through, ragged and limping and pulling Innocent from the destroyed wreckage of the stage.

The journalists talking over the footage discuss the detonation of two bombs, and the immediate rush of first responders, and recovery attempts still being made, and Janusz can’t hear a single word of it. Processing that will come later; all he can do right now is stare at two of the men who mean more to him than anyone left in this world on his television screen as they emerge, in tatters, from smoking rubble.

They are hours and countries and continents away, and yet they are right there: Thomas, his hands against Innocent’s face as he kneels beside him, desperately rousing him from unconsciousness; Innocent, catching Thomas when he collapses into the grass beside him, the both of them disasters of blood and singed fabric; the both of them, leaning against each other, hauling each other along minutes later, mostly-unconscious and half-stumbling in the direction of a group of heavily-suited men that Janusz takes to be American firefighters.

Alive.

Alive, Janusz thinks, a siren in his ears. The same words echo through the television, he’s alive, they’re alive—

—And then he reaches for his ringing phone.

It takes a fair while to organize the new Holy Father’s return home.

Though Innocent may not always call the Vatican home, he has lived here for nearly four years, now. That’s not nothing.

And this is, after all, Janusz’s home.

This place he spent so much time with the people he considered— still considers— his family, it will always be home. This is, too, where he and his Holy Father, his beloved companion, were together; for this, more than anything else, the Vatican will always be home, the one spot his heart will forever be rooted, unable to ever fully leave.

It feels empty in the extended absence of Pope Innocent XIV.

To Janusz, it also feels empty without Thomas Lawrence. He knows he is not the only one to feel this way— he watches Aldo in his worrisome flurries, Sister Agnes in her strict concern, Ray in his anxious determination, all of them impatient for their return— but he struggles to speak with them about it. Their bonds, he knows, are different, and—

In all honesty, he struggles to verbalize how he feels at all, to know what it is that he wants to say. He’s not sure there is much to say; they almost lost the new Holy Father— and they almost lost Thomas Lawrence— but they did not. They lived, and they are returning home, and all will soon be well.

Janusz tries to remind himself of the advice Thomas has given him before, and has repeated since on their phone calls overseas. He tells himself, We are not granted more trials by God than He knows we can handle, and he tells himself, Psalm 118:6, ‘With the Lord on my side I do not fear, what can man do to me?’, and he tells himself, He is alright, Janusz, they are both alright, they will come home to you soon.

It doesn’t work very well.

Janusz hardly expected it to.

More than once, he considers numbness over this feeling, this uncertainty, this dread and grief and loss when he has not truly lost either of them. They are fine, they are just— recovering in America before they can come home.

It is the reminder that they will come home that stills his hand. Janusz, more than once, attends the meetings Thomas helped him first go to nearly four years ago now; he reminds himself that he would not have them returned to him and be so soon to disappoint them, though he knows in his heart they would not treat him as a disappointment.

So lovely, he thinks. To know things in his heart. Like God answering his prayers.

Janusz instead throws himself into preparing for their eventual return. For the last few weeks, as Thomas and Innocent have been healing to be well enough to travel back, he has made it his personal mission to ensure everything is in order for them. Innocent’s schedule has been prepared for the next month, strict and with plenty of breaks; the Household has been kept in line, everyone’s appointments held and seen through; the literal household is even looked after by him, working together with Sister Agnes and Ray O’Malley to make certain that the rooms Innocent and Thomas share will be prepared for them when they return.

Finally, finally, today they are meant to come home, and Janusz cannot stop fretting, attempting to make sure everything is orderly and comfortable and perfect.

“Archbishop Woźniak?” a familiar voice calls as Janusz is readjusting the bouquet of daisies in the entryway to Innocent’s rooms. He is one of the few people who know that he and Thomas share their space; accordingly, he has chosen one of Thomas’s favorite vases for this, a clean white with a light-gold pattern of leaves woven in. “Janusz.”

“Yes,” he replies, automatic, startled, whirling at the firmer tone to find Ray behind him. “Oh— Cardinal O’Malley. My apologies, I was just…”

There’s no way to finish that sentence without lying or admitting he’s fussing, and so he only trails off. The indulgent softening of Ray’s expression tells him he knows the truth anyway.

“No apologies needed, my friend,” he tells him. “I was just looking for you to tell you, Thomas and the Holy Father have just arrived. Sister Agnes is escorting them here.”

“Oh!” Janusz turns back to the vase, rights it one last time, then steps back. “I will return to my rooms, if nothing else is—”

“Actually,” Ray stops him, “they were hoping to say hello to you. Thank you in person, before they rested.”

For a moment, Janusz is bewildered. It is the same sort of dropped-out stunned that he felt when Innocent told him he would not be losing his office, his family, his home, the biggest question mark of all, the most pleasant version of why me?

Then, he asks, “You’re certain?”

Ray’s eyes seem to almost sparkle. “Quite. They sent me ahead to make certain you were still here.”

“But—” Janusz stops, then. “I— Surely you or— or Aldo— Cardinal Bellini—”

“I’ve just seen them,” is Ray’s gentle reminder. “And they’ve already met with Aldo. They wish to see you for a minute.”

It strikes Janusz, dead in the center of his chest, and he nods. As if he could refuse the Holy Father— the new Holy Father— or Thomas; as if he ever would refuse them.

“Then— Then, I will see them,” Janusz says, before it sinks in and he repeats with more conviction, “Of course, I will see them. Are they well? I mean, I should certainly hope that they are— At least, well enough, if they’re already here.”

“See for yourself,” Ray tells him.

He moves to allow Sister Agnes to guide Innocent and Thomas back into the rooms, and it takes everything in Janusz not to rush to them, to embrace them, to hold them tight and secure in his arms. They are more than coworkers to him, and more than friends, and more than brothers; they are a deeper sort of family that lodges under Janusz’s skin alongside his own veins.

It is Thomas who comes to him instead. Just as he had on the television— just as he has in their video-calls since— he seems weathered, scarred, still bandaged and beat and broken. His tall frame bends down, hunched and stilted in a way it was not so much before; when Thomas moves from Innocent’s side to hug Janusz first, his grip is not as strong as it once was.

Unfortunately, Janusz cannot find it in himself to be similarly gentle.

His embrace of Thomas is tight, needing to feel him solid and real and alive in his arms again. Sometimes, he thinks Thomas is all he has left.

“You’re here,” Janusz says into Thomas’s shoulder.

A soft laugh near his temple. “Yes, we’re here, Janusz.” Thomas withdraws, his hands on Janusz’s shoulders, and the world is bright blue eyes for a moment before he’s being passed over to rich brown instead, Innocent tugging him into a hug of his own.

“You have done such a lovely job taking care of our home, Janusz,” Innocent tells him. He is similarly beaten, as Thomas appears, and stoops to favor his left side; like Thomas, though, he seems brighter than Janusz would have expected, the both of them practically glowing, seemingly just so happy to be here— and in front of him, which he can hardly understand.

“The two of you need rest,” Sister Agnes says, her voice that loving shade of firm she takes with those she cares most for. “Say goodbye, now.”

“I would have done nothing less,” Janusz answers Innocent, squeezing him before he withdraws to hold his hands instead. They’re small in his, his fingers thin; he hangs on tight, tells Innocent in earnest, “It’s our home. Thank you for letting me—”

“Ahh, no, no,” Innocent stops him. “You were right the first time. It’s our home.”

He leans in to kiss Janusz’s cheek before withdrawing. As if magnetized, he stumbles away from Janusz, then, right back into Thomas, and their hands catch each other, keeping them both upright.

Once their focus has returned to one another, they pay stunningly little attention to the rest of them. It is as if Janusz, Ray, and Sister Agnes are not there at all; Janusz catches affection in Sister Agnes’s expression as she guides them to Innocent’s bedroom, and amusement in Ray’s as he assists Thomas out of his shoes once inside.

Janusz lingers in the doorway.

Sister Agnes and Ray O’Malley work together to undress Innocent and Thomas, to assist their mutually-injured, battered bodies into nightgowns and under bedcovers.

Side-by-side.

In one bed.

Together.

Janusz’s insides all lurch at the sudden onslaught of memories— of when his Holy Father first asked him if he would climb into bed with him, of nights spent curled into his side, of discovering him dead there on the very last night of them all— and his breath catches in his throat.

A small sound escapes him, a horrible whimper, childlike and embarrassing. It draws the eyes of all in the rooms towards him, and Sister Agnes’s eyes narrow first.

“You will say nothing of this,” she tells him, sharp.

Another jolt inside Janusz, and he rushes into, “I would never— I would never, I—”

They have been so good to him, and they deserve to love each other, and—

And what kind of a hypocrite would he be, exactly, to deny Thomas the bed of his Holy Father, when Janusz longs to return to the same every night, and cannot?

“Sister,” Innocent says, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on Janusz. “It’s alright.” Sitting up in bed, he pats the edge of the covers beside him. “Janusz?”

Though he lingers for a moment, Janusz feels a bit of a magnetic pull, himself. He goes.

Sitting at Innocent’s bedside is the strangest déjà vu. He should look up and see his Holy Father there, smiling back at him, one arm spread to invite him in beside him, so they may read together until one of them falls asleep against the other, their nightly routine, secret only to them.

Instead, he looks up and sees Innocent and Thomas both looking back at him, framed by the headboard as if backlit by Heavenly God, and he cannot help the stifled sob that chokes up his throat.

“Oh, Janusz,” Innocent murmurs. Thomas’s hand stretches over his lap, sealing on top of Janusz’s, hanging on tight. “I know.”

Janusz shakes his head, a firm jerk.

“I know,” Innocent repeats in a whisper, only for them. “I understand. I can’t—”

His breath catches, too, and Janusz looks up at him, and Thomas beside.

“I can’t lose him,” Innocent tells him in that soft, low, secret voice. Intimate, like everything in a papal bed has been for Janusz. “We go through this, horrible things like these, and I just can’t help but think— No more. No more of this, I cannot lose him.”

“Vincent,” Thomas murmurs at his side, his tone indescribable and raw and familiar.

Innocent nods to Janusz, and he nods back, letting himself tilt forward until his face is buried in the soft space between his throat and his shoulder. There is a holy absolution here that Janusz thinks he has waited years for, unknowingly.

“I am so sorry, Janusz,” Vincent whispers to him. “I am so sorry.”

Janusz clutches them both— so glad that they, at least, are whole— and he weeps. There is nothing else for it.

“Thank you,” he chokes out, not certain what specifically he is thanking them for, just— needing to, all the same. “Thank you, thank you—”

Vincent shushes him, just as Thomas’s hand strokes up his arm, gripping his shoulder.

“No,” he stops him. “Thank you.”

Janusz clings tighter to them.

Tonight, for the first time in years, he is allowed to sleep in the papal bed, and it is not the same— it will never be the same— but neither, also for the first time in years, does he feel alone in the dark.