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Chapter Text

Thomas works all Saturday – it’s one of the first moderately free days for the new Holy Father, but Thomas has enough of his own work to do. So he works – he works even if there are the first bangs of a migraine ringing about right behind his left brow. He sits on his slightly uncomfortable couch, he stares unblinking at the screen of his brand-new papal-issue laptop, and he suffers.

Just a little – but he does.

The Inaugural mass had gone well, the All-Saints Feast had gone well too – but now, it is the run up to Christmas and if Thomas wants to make sure it will all go well, he has a lot to do. He’s focusing on seating arrangements for the Midnight mass that’s to take place on 24th December and it’s making the headache worse. He can’t sit the Americans next to the Mexicans… or the Canadians… or nearly any of the Europeans… or the Chinese... Which is exactly why, when his phone rings, he reaches for it, blindly accepts the call and barks out: “What?”

“Tómas? Are you alright?”

He had just barked at the pope. “Sorry, Your Holiness.” He sighs and pushes his glasses up to rub at the root of his nose.

“Can you come see me right now? I have something to show you. Please, if it’s not too much of a bother.” Vincent’s voice sounds emotional.

“Has something happened?” Thomas asks, alarmed; his annoyance has long dissolved in the sound of Vincent’s gentle lull.

“No. I mean – can you get here?”

“Yes. Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Thomas stands up, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear, and shuts the lid of his laptop.

“Don’t slip on the ice.” Vincent adds.

“I won’t.” Thomas cackles and ends the call. He pulls on his cassock over the shirt and trousers he had been sitting in, slips his coat on and wraps his scarf around his neck to brace against the cold early December air. He slips out of his flat and rushes down the steps. He steps onto Via del Pellegrino.

The sky is a rich dark blue, no stars are visible in the dome of the city’s streetlamps, but Thomas takes the air deep into his lungs and sets off for the Apostolic palace. Vincent had moved there from the Casa Santa Marta on Thomas’ insistence.

After a few days, Vincent had agreed it was a good choice – they needed the space. All of it. For the piles and piles of documents, doctrines to be reworked, statements to be made, the committees the Holy Father wanted to establish.

“You could still retire,” Vincent had smiled a few days ago, seeing Thomas and his over-stuffed briefcase.

“The desire to do so is gone,” Thomas had explained. He could’ve gone into more detail, yes – say that it was just the sight of Vincent Benítez, pallium around his neck, Fisherman’s ring on his finger, that made him decide to stay until he couldn’t. Or he could say the sound of the man’s laugh, growing more and more common when Thomas was around, was why he stayed. Or that the power with which he pushed to drag the universal church into the 21st century was why. There was a myriad of reasons.

Thomas swiftly turns onto Via di Belvedere. The air is starkly cold, and it burns inside his lungs. It is freezing a little; a cold Vatican winter is heading their way. Thomas doesn’t mind since he’s grown up in Northern England with its violent winds and rain as sharp as daggers.

Vincent is a different story.

They had to take to layering him in wool under his choir dress and warming his clothes with a hot water bottle after they noticed he’d come back indoors shivering, having given mass outside. “Always outside, Tómas! Not enough people fit inside the church, do they?” He had said, lips blue.

Another reason for staying could be the way Vincent pronounces Tómas. And they way his lips are carved.

Thomas finally reaches the Cortile de Triangolo and slips inside the Palace to continue his journey inside. His steps echo through the empty corridor as he marches towards the papal apartments, up the stairs and past the Swiss guards who are by now used to him coming and going at odd hours – had they been in a different situation, Thomas would’ve thought it was all a rather flammable nourishment for rumours.

“Evening,” he nods to Horace, the twenty-something year old usually stationed just outside the pope’s door, he knocks and opens the door without waiting for an answer.

“Your Holiness?” He calls into the large entrance hall before he shuts the heavy oak door. “Vincent?” He adds when it’s fully shut.

“In here,” Vincent sounds like there is an obstruction in his throat – maybe he’s been crying? No. Vincent can’t have been crying – not the mentally strongest person Thomas knows. Not the most resilient person who orbits around the Sun.

Thomas toes off his shoes and almost rushes into the bedroom.

Vincent Benítez didn’t really want to move into the Apartment in the first place – it makes sense he didn’t even want to remodel it one bit. It’s still a very bizarre mixture of multiple decades, from the gorgeous wood floors to the light green eighties bathtub. The bedroom is basically the only really private space the pope has – the living room is often occupied by bishops and cardinals and the occasional abbess. The so-called personal office is flooded by paperwork; Thomas can attest to that.

And so the pope and his non-existent personal belongings enjoy the quiet of the bedroom, which is, on most nights, lit by candlelight.

“Can I come in?” Thomas always makes sure to ask – even if the answer is always yes.
“Look at what they’ve done,” Vincent says in lieu of greeting. He stands in the middle of the room – a filthy, rectangular box sits in the foot of his bed, ripped open.

“Good evening,” Thomas steps closer.

“Look what they’ve managed,” Vincent rasps.

“What is it?” He glances inside the box – and suddenly realises why the cardboard is covered in dust and smears, why one of the corners is crushed and why there are so many postal stickers all over it.

“They’ve smuggled my things out of Kabul.” Vincent’s voice fails him.

When Vincent Benítez decided to leave for the conclave, he did so with only the clothes on his back, things that fit inside his pockets and his passport.

Now, there is a box that holds this man’s meagre possessions and Thomas feels like he’s about to cross Rubicon – like there will be no way back if he shares in this moment with Vincent, because this feels so… it feels so…

“Go ahead, my friend.” Vincent encourages him. “I saw that they sent my drawings, and I haven’t looked at anything else.” He’s holding a stack of papers – some covered in crayon, some in pencil – Thomas can’t really make it all out.

He goes to switch on the light and then takes a peek inside the box. Snuggled in between a military-looking canteen and a few folded pieces of clothing, next to a little beige stuffed rabbit, there’s a photo album. Thomas carefully pushes a few CDs and three tattered paperbacks out of the way, and he grabs the album.

It feels a little like setting foot in St Peters for the first time, or maybe this is what it felt like when Moses first read the Ten Commandments, or what it would feel like to glance Jesus, walking, breathing – opening that photo album and seeing a different version of Vincent Benítez…

He flips the hard-shell cover open.

The first photo is a group of children, a class of children, with their teacher. And it’s old – very old. He recognises a small Vincent, hair sheared close to the skull, yet the toothless smile and nose are unmistakable. The second page holds another photo of a group - of elder teens, only boys. That must be when they entered seminary. The next photo is only of Vincent, after having been ordained. He’s handsome, standing in front of an adobe church, smiling, with his teeth for once. An unusual sight.

Many photographs follow – not a lot of them have Vincent in them. There’re half-destroyed buildings and tropical flora. There’re women and nuns working and children playing in dusty streets. There’re open-air markets and shop windows. There are at least three different photos of Vincent holding newborn babies. There’s Vincent, knee deep in muddy water, a look of horror on his face. There’s Vincent in Congo, standing in front of a hospital, looking troubled, a man with a semi-automatic rifle next to the hospital’s entrance. There’s Vincent in hospital, giving the photographer a thumbs-up, clearly high on the medication he was given.

Thomas flips through the pages. Unbelievable, to be the first person in Rome to see all this.

One photo catches his eye. It’s more recent – taken in Afghanistan, clearly, because the one before it shows Vincent incognito in a tunic and a turban, face half-covered by a light blue cashmere scarf, standing in a desert. This photo is of a mixed group of around twenty people, Afghanis and westerners, women in hijabs and shaylas, two women not wearing any head covering, a few children looking distracted, all of them sitting at a table, some sort of celebratory dinner taking place. But in the front row is Vincent Benítez, smiling so softly it’s nearly not a smile. It is overwhelming to glimpse this extraordinary man’s life like this.

Thomas looks up – in the few minutes it took him to look through the photos, Vincent had not moved on from the children’s drawings. There’re tears running down his cheeks. Thomas stands and takes a handkerchief out of his pocket. He hands it to the pope.

Vincent blows his nose loudly and wipes his tears.

“Do you know what all this is?” He asks weakly. “I know it’s frivolous. I know. I’d left it all behind and have felt… wrong. It’s not about the material things. This is my flock, Thomas. My diocese – my friends.” Vincent speaks swiftly in an urgent tone.

Thomas knows how torn he had been about leaving his flock. How he woke from nightmares – he’d been there to see him wake up from two or three, when he sat in the office just next to this room, working into the night, accepting insomnia’s curse. He knows Vincent has struggled with that decision ever since he made it those few weeks ago.

Thomas knows very well what this is. “Forgiveness.” He whispers.

Vincent sobs.

Thomas can’t help it and goes and wraps his hands around the smaller man’s lithe frame – he’s even smaller now that he’s not wrapped in layers of wool underclothes and embroidery. He hugs him even tighter.

“Are you still bumping the ring into things?” Thomas asks, lips moving in Vincent’s hair, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Y-yes.” Vincent giggles, and it comes out half-a-sob.

“Would you like to see what else they sent?”

“Yes.”

Thomas lets him go – all his nerve endings scream at him not to – and goes to look at the box.

“Music.” He takes out the CDs, sets them on the bed (Marty Robbins; the Cure; Carmina Burana with the case cracked). “Books.” He sets them neatly next to the CDs. The book on top is a copy of Shusaku Endo’s Silence. Thomas smiles absentmindedly. “Some clothes of yours, I suppose.” He sets that on the bed, almost afraid to touch any of the t-shirts. The one on top of the little pile is sage green and says: Marche de la prevention d’AIDS, Kinshasa, 2005.
He almost takes out the canteen, when he notices an envelope.

“Vincent, there’s a letter.” He jerks his eyes to Vincent, who has been stading off to the side, almost in disbelief. “Do you want me to read it?”

Vincent gives a court nod.

“It’s in English. Uh… Dear papa Innocentius XIV,” Thomas starts. “We know that if this letter is intercepted on the package’s journey, all plausible deniability is gone, but we all felt it was needed. We are proud that the Holy Father comes from our diocese. We all prayed for you and continue to do so – your presence will be dearly missed, but you will always be in our hearts. Thank you for everything, Vincent – truly, thank you. Sending warm greetings, Nadira.” Thomas pauses. “They’ve all signed – Mohammad, Jasmine, Amir, Jakob, Abdo, Salma, Suzan.”

He looks at Vincent, who has set the children’s drawings down and is now sitting on the bed.

“Talk to me,” Thomas pleads.

“What of?” Vincent looks up at him.

“Your things.” Your past.

Vincent looks at the box, then reaches in: he brings out the stuffed toy. It’s a muddy sort of colour, no longer soft and missing an eye.

“This is Butter – he used to be yellow.” Vincent laughs but there’s an edge to his voice.

Thomas stays silent.

“He wasn’t mine. In Congo, there were many children. I worked nearly only with women and children; I think I was in a position many would’ve abused. I was needed, I hope. Anyway – the first woman I helped give birth was called Zola. Her baby was named Kimani. They were refugees, you see – stayed with us long enough for Kimani to turn five years old. She was a bright little girl, inseparable from that bunny – rabbit… toy.” The pope chuckles and it sounds wet. “Called it Siagi in Swahili - Butter.”

Thomas doesn’t want to ask why Vincent has the toy in his possession, but he knows he’ll find out right here and right now.

“They were both killed in a bombing, three weeks after Kimani’s fifth birthday.” Vincent gives the explanation.

“God be with them,” Thomas whispers.

“This canteen – this canteen was given to me by a Muslim man in the middle of the Afghani desert.” Vincent takes another of his meagre possessions out of the box, clearly eager for a happier item. “He somehow knew who I was – and yet he showed me incredible kindness. And this – this is a bracelet that Mohammad made me – insisted it was lucky! And this scarf – Thomas, you can’t imagine what a hassle it was to get a sale! It took Nadira ten minutes of haggling! She insisted I had to have it, for some reason.”

Thomas listens and watches him – it is a sacred moment. It’s beautiful – Vincent Benítez is, that is. The sky grows even darker – the inky blue grows into black, but somehow even in the terrible light, the man’s hair glows. A man of sixty – the black strings outnumber the silver ones, but his temples are greying, and it gives somewhat of an illusion of Roman crown, olive branches of silver wrapped around his head. A strand keeps falling into his eyes and he has to push it back; his hands move as he speaks, as he cradles his few belongings – his hands are small and graceful.

“It is good, Vincent – this all is.” He finally manages to say. “It’s all alright.”

“Yes. Yes. I know.” Vincent nods. He turns his large, wet eyes to Thomas: “Could you stay with me tonight?”

“Yes.” Thomas nods without thinking.

They put Vincent’s things where little belongings like this should be – the CDs and books on the nightstand, the few pieces of clothing in the wardrobe; Vincent fetches tape and sticks the drawings to some probably expensive vintage wallpaper one by one. Thomas sets Butter on the nightstand, too.

Suddenly, the room feels more welcoming. More homely. It feels like Vincent.

Thomas leaves Vincent and goes to the kitchen to make tea – when he comes back holding a tray loaded with biscuits and sugar and steaming mugs, Vincent’s sprawled on one half of the bed, asleep. Thomas smiles absentmindedly again.

He sets down the tray and goes to push an armchair closer to the bed, borrows Endo’s Silence and sits down. The seating arrangements for Christmas mass can wait. There is no more work he’ll be doing tonight. He sits, the cocktail of emotions and feelings bubbling in his stomach.

Chapter Text

Thomas wakes up slumped in the armchair when Vincent shakes his shoulder gently. He blinks, once, twice. Vincent is standing by his side, handing over a glass of water and a little pill.

“Ibuprofen,” he explains. “Your back must be killing you.”

He’d slid downward sometime in the night; his neck twisted in an odd angle. The chair is somehow very uncomfortable and not at all – his back hurts a little, his neck aches, but it’s the bones and not his flesh. Thomas sits up a little and gladly accepts the medicine, because yes – his back does feels numb and odd, when he really thinks about it. He bends over to pick up the book which had slid down to the floor.

The light coming into the room is weak and pale. He wipes the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand then looks at Vincent properly. It’s Sunday and Vincent has two masses to hold: one at the Casa Santa Marta for the workers of the Vatican, the other in St Pauls’ square. He’s already dressed, the white of his cassock is crisp and perfect.

“If you want to get changed before mass, you should go.” Vincent tells him.

Thomas nods silently, his shoulders weighted down by remnants of sleep. The tea he had made last night sits on its tray where he’d left it, now cold. There are brown rings inside the cups as the liquid evaporated over time.

Vincent helps him into his coat, wraps his scarf around his neck and sends Thomas out the door.

Thomas mutters a greeting to Horace who looks only moderately tired, having spent the night at his post in the corridor.

The freezing air outside wakes Thomas up better than anything else as he heads for his pit-stop; the sky is slowly growing lighter, and Thomas can tell it will be one of those gorgeous winter days when the sky is clear and that sort of pale blue it only takes on in the winter.

At his flat, he changes into clean garments, grabs his gloves for later and gets out of the door again, shuffling in the cold to the Casa Santa Marta. He takes it through the Vatican gardens – a route that’s a little longer, but he appreciates stretching his legs. He meets only a few souls this early; a few Swiss Guards off duty jogging around the gardens, the gardener already out and trimming evergreens, a lone van.

Another of the new things Vincent has implemented is Sunday Breakfasts, santa colazione mockingly dubbed by Tedesco: after Sunday mass at the chapel, all the members of the Curia who are in Rome and want to, gather for breakfast. Thomas has skipped this so far, even if he attended the mass, preferring to break his fast at his flat (therefore not eat at all until a small lunch). But today, he thinks that a warm meal will do no harm.

The mass at the Chapel is short today. Thomas kneels and stands when it’s needed of him to. He whispers his prayers. He doesn’t notice Aldo staring daggers at him, or the band of knotted embroidery thread around Vincent’s left wrist.

After it’s over, he comes back to his pew to wait for Vincent to disrobe; when he sees Thomas waiting, the Vincent’s face brightens.

“Is your back good?” He asks. A few sisters are lingering in their blue habits, and the mandatory Swiss guard waits in the shadow – Enzo, Thomas thinks this young man’s name is.

“Yes. I don’t think it was too sore in the first place.” Thomas nods curtly.

“Better safe than sorry. Is that the expression?” Vincent sets off for the door.

“Yes,” Thomas laughs softly, a warm feeling in his belly.

There’re scrambled eggs among the breakfast spread that morning and Thomas gladly piles a little mountain on his plate, remembering seminary and how excited everyone got over them even if they weren’t pleasantly soggy, but rather too dry.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Aldo greets him coldly.

“Morning,” Thomas nods to him appreciatively.

“You remember we have that meeting?” Aldo mutters as he loads up on ham, standing partially turned away from Thomas; his profile is stern.

“The one at noon? Of course.” Thomas tells his side of his head, a little baffled by his friend’s hostility.

“Then make sure it actually starts at noon.” Aldo hisses.

“I can’t tell him when he should stop blessing people, Aldo.” Thomas cackles in disbelief, but his friend has already set off. He goes and sits with Adeyemi and Sabbadin, ignoring the Holy Father’s table completely.

“Is he quite alright?” Vincent asks immediately when Thomas sits across the table.

“I have to idea what happened,” Thomas shakes his head, truly not knowing why Aldo is like that. But he knows Vincent doesn’t exactly love Aldo – even if he did re-appoint him as Secretary of State – and it warms Thomas, hearing his concern for Aldo.

Vincent blesses both their meals and then says: “The eggs look very good today.”

Thomas nods absentmindedly and tries to come up with a reason for Aldo’s terrible mood.

“Bon matin. May we join you?” Sister Agnes is standing next to their table joined by sisters Judith and Agatha.

The women are an odd trio: the short and robust sister Agnes with a look that could skin one alive; the tall and thin Swedish Judith with strands of blonde hair peeking out of her veil; Agatha, of average height, all the way from Zimbabwe, with a round face and a kind gaze.

“Of course,” Vincent nods and Thomas scoots over on the bench.

“How are your Christmas preparations going?” Vincent inquires.

“They are right on track, Your Holiness,” it’s Judith who replies, in perfect English, seeing as Agnes had just bit into a bread roll.

“Bien,” Vincent nods.

“And your brother?” Vincent turns to Agatha.

“He’s getting better,” Agatha nods, sips her tea and continues: “The infection is dying down, but he might never recover sight in his left eye.”

Vincent nods, gravely serious and says: “I’ll remember him in my prayers.”

Agatha almost tears up.

Thomas is often amazed at just how good Vincent is at being a pope; he’s naturally kind but also manages to remember everyone’s name and some little thing about them. He never goes back on his words. He’s incredibly accepting and non-judgmental. That’s only some of the things Thomas enjoys about the man...

“Desolée, your Holiness, but I wanted to inquire about when cardinal Adeyemi would come back to join us in the kitchens.” Sister Agnes finally speaks again.

Ah, yes – Thomas knows very well what this is about. Maybe the greatest goal of pope Innocent XIV: change. Yes, simple enough, you’d think. But changing an old man’s – multiple old men’s – ways? Hard. Not impossible. But highly improbable.

“Was he so helpful?” Vincent’s eyes glimmer.

“Oh, yes!” Judith exclaims. “He brought a few Guards as well; we didn’t have to carry anything at all! And having a few extra arms always helps! We put all of them right to work.”

Agnes smiles one of her not-really-smiles. “Précisement.”

“You’re going to have to ask cardinal Adeyemi yourselves.” Vincent waves his hand in the man’s direction. “I may have sent him to you, but I’m sure he can make time himself.”

Thomas shakes his head ever-so-slightly. Unbelievable. Utterly unbelievable.

They finish their meals; Vincent keeps gentle conversation with sisters Judith and Agatha – all three of them had spent time in Africa; Vincent in Congo, Agatha obviously in Zimbabwe and also Eritrea, Judith in Nigeria. Agnes and Thomas exchange a few silent smiles – it’s nice, to have someone who is so easy going, so selfless, who takes on the burden of conversation.

Thomas and Vincent split up; Vincent leaves to get ready for his second mass of the day, while Thomas goes to fetch his laptop and paperwork, deposits them at the office for their meeting later that day and rushes to the square for mass.

The sky isn’t such a clear pale blue as he thought it’d be, it’s an iron-grey arch above his head. He’s pretty sure it will snow from those clouds. He’s glad he thought to take his gloves and sure hopes someone, maybe one of the monsignors who help Vincent dress in all his regalia, thought to give the man woollen socks and a sweater or two.
As he makes his way through the crowd, he notices they have – Vincent looks rather round, rounder than usual, and Thomas can only thank God that someone has some sense in their head and remembered to try to keep the pope warm.

Thomas remembers he’d wanted to have Ray order another cassock, a bit larger, for just this very reason: the pope can’t walk around looking like a poorly stuffed pillow.

Vincent has a microphone, and his lull carries across the square, as he slips into his imperfect Italian, into Spanish, into French (which he can’t write and had picked up in Congo, which in turn makes Sister Agnes cringe whenever she hears him speak it) and back into English. His voice flows above the heads of the few thousand who have gathered. It isn’t his largest crowd, probably because it’s so bitterly cold, but the cameras are there, and their red lights are on.

Thomas is quite late as he stops at the front of the crowd, all the way at the right; the mass is powering ahead, maybe Vincent is also eager to get back inside – and to let the people go, too. He’d missed the introductory rites, and the reading of the scripture has just ended. Vincent steps forward to give his homily.

He has grown confident in writing them himself; not that he hadn’t before, but he doesn’t give them to Thomas or Ray or Sabbadin to read and review anymore. Thomas is used to the pleasant surprises of what he has to say.

“As we just heard: I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. If we trust in Him, we shall find certainty. We shall find salvation through Him; He accepts, and He helps in times of need, of hopelessness, of suffering. I ask you to pray for your fellowmen, then help them. Anyone who loves God must also love his brother and sister. I think of my brothers and sisters often; not only my fellow brethren, but all my brothers and sisters, all around the world. I remember you; I pray for you.”

Thomas gets an eerie feeling his last few words are highly targeted; targeted at a certain group of Afghanis, somewhere in Kabul. Nadira and her son Mohammed, Salma and Amir and all the rest of them… Thomas’ eyes fill with hot tears.

There are around ten priests to present and then give out the eucharist; some of the spectators flood away, some stay. After a short while, Vincent dismisses the faithful. He himself, along with Enzo and another Swiss Guard who’s name Thomas can’t recall, enters the crowd and starts blessing people, exchanging a word here and there, cradling their hands, taking selfies, bringing comfort in any way he can.

Thomas checks his watch. His perception of time’s passage must’ve been curbed by something – maybe not sleeping in his own bed (or a bed for the matter), or by his shuffling back and forth across the Vatican – but its half past eleven. It usually takes Vincent around an hour or more to make the rounds. Thomas wouldn’t dream of interrupting him: Sabbadin, Aldo, Tedesco, Ray and the Comandante of the Swiss Guard will all have to wait. Maybe not Goffredo, he and his plume of cherry-cola-or-whatever flavoured smoke are almost always late anyway.

Thomas shadows Vincent through the crowd.

Someone, a young woman with blue hair, tries to get to Vincent. Enzo gently holds her back, but Vincent stops and turns to her. She hands him something and Thomas can only see her face go bright red as Vincent laughs; it’s the genuine article, the sound startled out of Vincent by whatever it is he holds in his hands.

Vincent blesses the item is and returns it.

“I hope he gets better.” Thomas can hear a part of what he says to her; the young woman is nearly brought to tears as she nods.

No way Thomas would intervene – whatever Vincent does as pope, nothing could be more important than this, he thinks. Almost nothing.

At a quarter to one, Vincent finally retreats and takes Thomas under the arm as they head towards the Apostolic palace.

“I could tell what you did there,” Thomas can’t help himself.

It starts to snow as they near the palace. Fat, heavy snowflakes begin to spill from the sky very suddenly. Thomas is sure the snow will pile up in this cold, fill Rome and it’s ancient streets up and with it, life would come to a standstill.

“Where?” Vincent glances at Thomas. His cheeks and nose flush when they step inside, where it’s significantly warmer; the colour rushes to his face, painting it even more beautiful – can a man of sixty be beautiful? Yes, Thomas thinks.

“With your homily. You spoke to Kabul, didn’t you?” Thomas adds.

“Yes. One John 4:21 holds a lot of meaning for all of them.” Vincent nods laconically.

“Good.” Thomas smiles and follows Vincent into the room in which he’s been dressing up for mass held in the square. He waits as monsignors Nowak and Mueller help Vincent out of the layers upon layers of fabric. Free of regalia, Vincent dismisses them and continues on his own, stripping off even more layers.

“We’ve let them wait for quite some time.” Thomas tells the pope, whose head is hidden in a sweater at that very moment.

“I had Ray move the meeting to one o’clock. We’re almost early, Tómas. I hope you won’t mind me using your secretary.” Vincent says as soon as his head is clear of the forest green wool.

“No! Brilliant, Vincent. I think he’s our secretary at this point,” Thomas grins.

The pope’s hair is sticking up from how he pulled the sweater over his head, it’s half static, half just how it had been ruffled.

“You’ve got…” Thomas gestures to his head. Vincent tries to pat his hair down and fails. The strands won’t behave; for a few painful moments, Vincent looks almost terribly dishevelled. Thomas doesn’t stop to think before he steps closer, smooths his hair down and pushes a lone strand behind his ear.

“You should get a haircut,” he says when Vincent looks presentable again.

“You don’t like it?” Vincent instinctively reaches for a strand of his hair that falls down to his neck.

“I didn’t say that,” Thomas counters vigorously.

“A hair tie, then maybe.” Vincent smiles at him sheepishly.

They finally head up the stairs.

“What had that young woman shown you?” Thomas remembers.

“Miss Lilliana? She asked me to bless her little brother’s plush dinosaur. An orycto-dro-meus, I think she called it. It looked silly. She thought I wouldn’t bless it, because she thought I didn’t believe in dinosaurs. The little brother, he’s… he’s got epilepsy. Had a terrible episode two days ago.” Vincent explains as they round a corner to the office – Thomas nods and checks his watch. Five minutes to one.

They’re meeting at the official office, not the one at the apartment. It’s polished and clean, the French president had tea with Vincent in there, it’s the representative space – better for discussion, with no piles of papers, empty coffee cups or power strips fully occupied with a laptop chargers plugged in all the additional outlets.

The only person already waiting in front of the office is Aldo. And he looks furious.

“Where have you been?” He hisses at Thomas as soon as he sees him.

Thomas has known him for long enough to know that the situation is grave. The subdued diplomat, the passive scholar that is Aldo Bellini, Thomas’ oldest friend is truly furious; his eyelid spasms, his skin is shiny; eyes twinkle with anger. His shoulders are stiff and his entire posture radiates fury.

“Cardinal Bellini,” Vincent starts, but is rudely interrupted: “And you wore a rainbow bracelet. Do you have to rile Tedesco and his squadron up?”

“This?” Vincent asks in disbelief and lifts his left hand up. “This was a gift from…”

“You can email me the meeting report.” Aldo hisses and sets of down the corridor. His back moves away with surprising speed, the zucchetto on his head a little spot of colour in the darkened corridor. The snow has started falling even heavier.

It will be so quiet outside – so very eerily quiet and Thomas feels an urge to go sit outside and just… sit. He feels very tired.

“Go,” Vincent gently pushes Thomas after Aldo. “¡Date prisa!”

Vincent sounds encouraging and gentle. His hand presses into Thomas’s lower back like a brand, it sears into his skin through the fabric and stays there. Thomas would maybe like to just sit with Vincent next to him and watch the snow saunter from the sky.

Chapter Text

“Aldo. Aldo!” Thomas rushes after his friend, passing door after door. His steps ring out almost like gunshots; the marble is shiny and cold all around him, it amplifies the echoes. It’s a symphony of sorts, two pairs of steps, two cassock skirts whistling about their ankles in a furious melody. “Wait – please. Wait!”

Thomas remembers how he’d met Aldo in New York when he was the papal nuncio to the US. It had been a different time; an entirely different time – one before they both learned the cruelty of the world, when they both had their own ideals. When Aldo had all his hair and Thomas had a moustache. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Aldo finally stops, breathing heavily, his shoulders in a perfectly tailored cassock rising up and down. Thomas can’t see his face. He would rather have this conversation behind closed doors, but alright – the open corridor it is.

“Have I done something to anger you, Aldo? I am sorry you didn’t get the message about the time…” Thomas starts and almost goes to take Aldo’s elbow, when Aldo turns around and rips his glasses off his face, leaving smudges on the glass.

“I waited for you at Giuseppe’s for two hours yesterday, Thomas!” Aldo shouts; his emotions have boiled over and he actually shouts at Thomas. Aldo shouting is a rare occurrence; Aldo shouting at Thomas is even rarer.

Oh. Oh.

A wave of guilt washes over Thomas. It drowns out any confusion; it suffocates his own little tentacles of anger nagging at his throat. It overwhelms him almost completely. Mea culpa. He had caused his friend pain.

“I’m so sorry Aldo!” Thomas breathes out. “I completely forgot… why didn’t you call me?”

“I did!” Aldo yells. “Ten times or so!”

Thomas had left his phone at his flat, didn’t he? He probably did. It still sits next to his key bowl; that’s the likeliest place. And instead of having dinner with Aldo he had fallen asleep in the pope’s bedroom, to wake up to a sore back and Vincent’s soft smile, to little fans of wrinkles around brown eyes deeper than wells in Morocco. To the smell of bergamot and soap, in an apartement full of history with a person who's been through so much.

“What can I do?” He asks Aldo breathily. “Please. What can I do to make you forgive me? I am really sorry. Please.”

He is truly sorry – but there is a part of him that feels like even if Vincent had called him at the restaurant, he would’ve left Aldo and gone to him. He cares for Aldo very much, yes, he does! But Vincent – Thomas would give his life for Vincent in a heartbeat.

“Forget it.” Aldo mutters and puts his glasses back on.

“No, please, Aldo. I can see you’re very upset. What can I do to-”

“Didn’t you want to retire? Didn’t you lose your ability to pray? What are you still doing here, Thomas?!” Aldo snaps, the anger in him bubbles over again; the words spill out without consideration, without thought. The floodwater rushes over the spillway - it takes everything in its path, leaves only destruction.

“Wh-what?” Thomas gasps. The accusation is so well targeted it sends a lightning of pain into his stomach. Aldo’s aim is perfect; he hits the open wound and deepens the gash.

“I asked what you were still doing at the Vatican,” Aldo’s voice turns ice cold, he hisses and his eyes narrow into little slits.

Thomas can’t help it and scoffs. “You’re joking.”

“Why are you still here?” Aldo steps closer. “Is it so you can follow Benítez around like a pitiful puppy? Don’t think I don’t see how you look at him!”

Thomas is baffled, entirely taken aback, fully speechless. He physically can’t speak for a moment, but then the words flow out and his tone shifts angrier and angrier: “You ask why I'm still at the Vatican? Are you serious? Do you not know me after all this time? It’s because my feelings and opinions and… believes have changed! That’s life, Aldo – and I am managing. A lot of things if you didn’t notice – if something slips my mind… I am sorry! I really am, and I asked what I could do to make you forgive me, but you’re being difficult!” He barks out the last few words harshly and turns to walk away.

“Thomas-” Aldo starts, voice desperate and maybe a little suffocated.

Thomas glances over his shoulder. “I really am sorry. But you went over the line too, Aldo.”

He leaves Aldo standing where he is.

Making his way back up the corridor, he feels like there’s something bubbling in his chest. It’s painful. Before his love for Aldo turns to hate, he must make this right… he’s angry, but that’ll pass. He needs to work all this out in his mind; he needs time away from Aldo. He needs to meditate on all of this.

Apparently, everyone else has piled into the office – and even if Thomas is sure they all heard the argument, he’s glad none of them comment on it. It must’ve carried in the endless marble corridor, he’s certain. He grabs his laptop from where he’d left it on Vincent’s desk and sits in the chair he usually sits in, right under a window overlooking St Peter’s square. Snowflakes flutter straight down from the sky.

Sister Agnes smiles at him – it’s a bit of a sad smile. Adeyemi nods to him. Ray sends him a nervous look. Sabbadin avoids his gaze.

Thomas sits up, opens his laptop and a fresh Word document.

Vincent walks over, pats his shoulder gently; then he starts the meeting, standing in the centre of the room, surrounded by his colleagues.

“Good afternoon,” Vincent begins. “Thank you for coming. Um – and apologies for the later start.” He glances at Thomas. “We’re here to discuss the…”

The door opens so hard it bangs against the wall; the sound is harsh and sudden. Ray jumps up. Adeyemi turns his head in alarm, sister Agnes gasps. Thomas himself jerks back in his chair, air catches in his throat. The Comandante instinctively reaches for his gun.

“Sei pazzo!” Tedesco bursts through the door, voice accusatory. He points at the pope. A plume of sweet-smelling smoke reaches Thomas, which in itself is odd: the smoke usually precedes Tedesco.

The patriarch of Venice is still wearing his ridiculous fur-lined cape and a silly ear-flap hat. A thin layer of snow hasn’t yet melted on his shoulders. The little snowflakes soon loose their fight against the heat.

“What is it, eminence?” Vincent turns to him, voice admirably even, the slightest hint of annoyance on his face, only noticeable to Thomas.

“This!” Tedesco shoves his phone in Vincent’s face.

“Oh… the news seems to have noticed my bracelet.” The pope pulls the white sleeve up and lifts his wrist up to show the room.

A hand-made bracelet is tied around his thin wrist, made of tightly knotted embroidery yarn. The colours range all over the rainbow; the strings are tied so that the colours pass one into the other from green to yellow through orange into red and then pink, purple, blue.

“You broke the papal dress code and…” Tedesco wants to continue as his face grows more crimson, but Vincent leans against his desk and calmly says: “A young boy in Kabul made it for me, for good luck. And you also seem to be alarmed the press says I aligned with the LGBT community – Goffredo, do I have to remind you the church is open to everyone? No matter their race, sexuality or anything else.”

Tedesco opens his mouth once, twice. No words come out. He huffs.

Thomas’s heart starts beating again – the patriarch’s violent entrance would’ve been met with shouting, yelling and beratement from the late Holy Father. Vincent’s composure is almost unbelievable.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Sister Agnes tells Tedesco – then stands up and goes to pour herself a cup of tea. “C’est incroyable, ça. Incroyable.”

“Monsignor O’Malley, I think it’s time to expedite that statement about the queer community.” Vincent turns to Ray. “Please add to it that the bracelet was a gift – from a dear friend. Maybe the press will calm down a little bit.”

Ray nods – apparently unable to speak; then reaches for his laptop.

Thomas is familiar with the contents of that statement; he had been the one to edit it. A warm feeling blooms in his belly when he sees Tedesco frown, huff and then take a hit of his vape.

“Are you going to sit, Goffredo, so that we can continue?” Vincent smiles softly, ignoring the disgusting cloud of blue smoke that floats straight into his face.

Tedesco huffs once again; then pulls off his cape, the stupid hat and sits.

The meeting passes in a blur; Thomas ends up with a three-page report he sends to Aldo. The email is delivered at twenty-one minutes past five in the afternoon.

When it’s all finally over, he rushes to get away – not from anyone in particular, but he just needs to be outside for a while. The claustrophobia he’d felt during the conclave, with all the shutters and tight quarters, hasn’t returned so powerfully in the few weeks that have passed, not until now. Even the generous space of the apostolic palace is too small for Thomas.

He almost can’t breathe, and it isn’t until he’s traipsing through a thin blanket of crisp, white snow, that he feels the weight lift. He nearly collapses on a bench in the Vatican gardens and feels a longing for the open ocean – to spend some time sitting in the grass or sand on the shore and look outward towards some distant invisible landmass, like he used to do when his sister ran around, screaming with joy. Thomas had always been a taciturn child.

Aldo – he can’t ruin his forty-year-old friendship. He can’t! But Vincent is important. Thomas has never felt like this; he turns the feeling around in his mind, twisting it, bending it a little. He pokes it with an imaginary stick.

Love is what it is, he supposes. It’s a dry statement in his mind. It’s the truth.

The snow grows thicker. The air is still; the snowflakes absorb any and all noise. A Swiss guard huddled in a pink scarf and a ridiculous checkered hat jogs past the bench and Thomas startles, because he hadn’t heard him.

Love, yes. Love he can’t act on. Love he will not act on, never. Because Vincent is the pope, most of all, and Thomas wants to be his friend, and he would never compromise that.
He sits on a bench somewhere deep in the Vatican gardens as the world around him grows darker and darker, warmed just by what he feels and for once, he feels totally calm.

Chapter Text

On Monday, in the early evening, Thomas’ phone rings.

He hadn’t seen any of the Curia all day; knowing that all of Rome would take a snow day, he’d gone along with Caritas Roma, to deliver help to the homeless. The snow hadn’t melted. It stayed where it had fallen during the night, a thick white blanket all over the roofs. The city wasn’t prepared for so much snow; traffic collapsed, people stayed home, and some schools didn’t open.

Thomas had, early in the morning, pulled on his boots, wrapped his scarf around his neck and set off to spend the day clearing his mind. God loves a cheerful giver, doesn’t He?

His friend Regina, whom he’d met years ago in Milan entirely by accident, welcomed him warmly at the office and then right away sent him out of the door. So Thomas tracks around in the snow with a group of university students, bringing blankets to the homeless. He spends time trying to persuade the needy to go to a shelter – when he fails, he at least tells them where they can get warm soup or more blankets. There are a few churches which are open at all times; he tells them they can go sit inside them, at least for the coldest part of the night.

It’s good work; it's honest work. The gaggle of students Regina had sent him with keeps pestering him with questions. Afterall there’s a flesh-and-bone cardinal running around with them. For at least an hour, he’s engaged deep in conversation with an aspiring evolutionary biologist – when he tells her the pope believes in dinosaurs (and therefore the evolution, probably), she almost tears up. Her name is Isabella and Thomas promises to invite Innocent to tour her university, but he doesn’t promise it’ll actually happen; he does ask her to give him her phone number, though.

When he returns back to his flat in the Via de Pellegrino, the cold has settled in his old bones and his feet ache. He feels rested. He feels fulfilled. He makes a small meal for himself, drinks a large mug of tea and considers going to bed early, so that at least one day isn’t ruined by actual work – then his phone rings.

“Sì?” He answers blindly, picking it up off the table.

“Tómas?” Thomas hears the soft voice and immediately knows what he’d like to do tonight; he’d love to spend some time with Vincent. Just – be around. Listen to him go on about anything and everything.

“Yes?” Thomas responds.

“I have something I’d like you to read. Can you come over?” Vincent asks, his voice a little robotic over the line. “You don’t have to.” He adds swiftly.

“I’m on my way. Should I bring something?” The Vatican shop closes in twenty minutes.

“Nothing in particular.”

Thomas ends the call, pulls on his coat over his collared shirt and sweater, and sets off to traipse through the snow once more; Swiss Guards with shovels had at least cleared some of it from the Vatican, piled little mountains at the end of each alley.

He stops at the shop and buys a bar of chocolate.

The night air is biting his cheeks; he’s glad when he makes it inside the Apostolic palace. Enzo is on guard duty tonight, standing with his back straight, blending into the shadows in his black attire.

“Good evening, eminence,” the young man greets him with a smile. Enzo is the gentler, softer of the Swiss Guards who guard Vincent – even if all their shoulders are twice the width of Thomas’, he's softspoken and incredibly polite.

“Good evening, Enzo.” Thomas greets him back jovially.

To become a Swiss Guard in this day and age means to put your life on hold for at least two years, to leave families and girlfriends behind in Switzerland and go to the Vatican, to learn how to stand still for hours on end, to be ready to give your life for the pope. Thomas appreciates these young devout men. The ones assigned to shadow Vincent have been here longer, and they lack the ridiculous yellow and blue uniform.

He slips inside the apartment past Enzo. “Good evening,” he says loudly, announcing he’s arrived.

“Thomas!” Vincent rushes to the hall, dressed in that sage t-shirt from Congo and a pair of black trousers. He’s barefoot. What exactly he had been doing in the kitchen is unclear, but Thomas pulls his coat and boots off and lets Vincent drag him into the small room towards a delicious smell.

The room’s an odd mixture of decades, just like the rest of the flat – the toaster had probably been around when Thomas’ grandmother was still alive, but the coffee machine is shiny and new. The tiles are an ugly ochre, the cupboards a warm-coloured walnut. The small window overlooks the Vatican gardens.

“Where did you disappear off to?” Vincent asks and hands Thomas a mug of tea.

“I thought some meetings would get shuffled around because of the weather and you wouldn’t miss me.” Thomas explains.

“That’s true. But you didn’t say where you went off to,” Vincent crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the counter, in a self-comforting manner.

“I went with Caritas Roma to hand out some blankets.” Thomas admits. At that, Vinent’s eyes sparkle.

“Brilliant!” He smiles.

“Met some interesting characters. I got told multiple times the pope has, and I quote, passed the vibe check for being kind to the gays. Whatever that means,” Thomas sips the pleasantly warm tea. It’s got lemon and honey in it; it tastes like when he was sick as a child.

His words startle a laugh out of Vincent, another one of those genuine laughs. It’s almost what happens when champagne bubbles over the edge of the glass; it warms Thomas all the way down to his toes.

Vincent moves away, cutlery clangs against porcelain, and then he hands Thomas a bowl of soup. As Thomas takes it, it occurs to him it's surely some sort of priceless artifact that had been sitting in a cupboard for at least a decade. Their fingers brush and Vincent’s ring clangs against the beautiful material.

“I doubt I’ll ever get used to the thing.” He complains. That’s rare, for Vincent to complain.

“And isn’t that a good thing?” Thomas gets philosophical, then grins mischievously.

Vincent rolls his eyes and smiles. “Eat your soup.”

Thomas does so, leaning against the counter. Maybe they both needed a somewhat normal day; Thomas can imagine Vincent had served mass in the chapel; then bulldozed through paperwork; and finally found perhaps a little of normal in this pot of soup. He has to resist drinking it - it's a very tasty soup, but it's also Vincent's soup and that makes his head spin.

“This was delicious, thank you. What was it you wanted me to read?” Thomas inquires when he’s finished with the soup, having used the spoon like a sane person.

“I started writing the homily for Midnight mass on Christmas.” Vincent says. “But it can wait. Chocolate?” He rips the packet open.

“Why not,” Thomas says and breaks off a piece.

“I also wanted to talk to you about some of the cardinals,” Vincent adds, his voice takes on a serious note. “One in particular.”

“Good job, baiting me with soup and chocolate,” Thomas can’t help himself. And there it is: a smile, full of slightly crooked white teeth, totally genuine, honest and entirely reserved for Thomas.

“I think cardinal Bellini might need help; not dissimilar to the help Joshua and Joseph need,” Vincent explains.

“What do you propose?” Thomas ignores the nagging feeling in his stomach and takes a bite of the chocolate; Aldo is one of the only cardinals and bishops in the close circle around the pope who isn’t on a first-name basis with the pope, even if they all keep referring to him as His Holiness out of habit.

“It can’t be either of us, who tries to help him.” Vincent continues softly.

“Who do you think it should be?”

“Someone relatively impartial. Someone who also doesn’t exactly love me, just like cardinal Bellini,” Vincent takes the empty bowl and sets it in the sink.

“Do you mean… you can’t be serious! Aldo hates him.” Thomas laughs in disbelief.

“Goffredo? Yes, I mean the patriarch.” Vinent turns back to Thomas.

Thomas stares at him for a moment; considers the relationship between Aldo and Tedesco. Maybe… maybe, just maybe, this isn’t such a terrible plan. Vincent isn’t a chess player, isn’t exactly a manipulator like the Late Holy Father had been – he’s engaged in some sort of game only God and Vincent know the rules to and that is always fair and strives to deliver the best results, even if the rules keep changing. Aldo and Tedesco – well.

“Sure.” Thomas nods after a fashion. “Sure, why not. There probably isn’t much more that could go wrong.”

Vincent shows him the first bits of the homily for Christmas; he leads Thomas to the bedroom, sits him down in the same armchair he’d slept in and gives him his laptop, the very same model Thomas has, although the pope has a silver one. He reads the paragraphs siting next to the window. Vincent had turned the electric lights on for once, and he waits for Thomas to finish reading by the window, looking outside. It has started to snow outside again; the flurry outside has a dream-like quality.

“They say the weather will turn. There won’t be a snowy Christmas.” Vincent says absentmindedly.

“Hm,” Thomas nods. He’s seen the predictions, too. Another wet and grimy Roman winter awaits them. Vincent’s face reflects in the window back at Thomas. He stops reading and simply watches Vincent, who seems unaware of his gaze. And so Thomas enjoys looking at him for a short indulgent moment – God and the late Holy Father had conspired to get this man to the Vatican. Thomas is surely grateful.

The soft line of his jawline contrast with his big nose. Thomas decides he likes big noses; anyway, it doesn’t matter how large someone’s nose is when it sits in between the most beautiful eyes on the planet – and in the centre of an oddly harmonious face. Perhaps it’s just because Thomas knows how good Vincent is. How good he is through and through.

“Tomorrow is another busy day.” Vincent finally speaks.

“What do you have planned?” Thomas doesn’t have to turn his eyes to him.

“The already planned private audiences – then some of the meetings that were supposed to happen today… but snow is apparently Rome’s biggest enemy. And mass in the morning, of course.” Vincent crosses the room and sits on his bed, cross legged. “I just… it’s a lot, that’s all.”

“It will all calm down after Christmas.” Thomas reassures him. “By Easter, you’ll be used to all of it.”

The guards, the cameras in his face, the onslaught of gossip, the questioning voices, the devout throwing themselves at him, the constant workload, the imposter syndrome, the doubts. The hoping you're doing your best.

“I sometimes worry.” Vincent admits.

“That’s normal. We all doubt. Do… do you want to pray about it?”

Vincent nods; it’s just a jerk of his head. He climbs off the bed, kneels down and rests his elbows on the blanket on top of the bed. Thomas joins him; he sinks down much heavier than Vincent – Vincent is shorter and probably thinner, and even if Vincent is just a few years younger, his knees are in considerably better shape.

Soon enough, Thomas slips into meditation – he prays for Vincent’s success, he prays for the safety of Nadira and Mohammed and the rest of the Afghanis that he’s never met, he prays that more people help all the homeless faces he’d seen today. He remembers his sister, too; Aldo comes to mind, and Thomas quickly banishes the thought of him - not yet.

He notices Vincent has shifted his weight to sit back on his heels.

“Are you done?” Thomas asks, glancing to the side.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you.” Vincent shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Thomas smiles.

Vincent pulls himself up to his feet, wanders off to the nightstand and lifts up Endo’s Silence. “Liked it?”

“I’ve read it before,” Thomas admits. “Years ago. And yes, I do like it. It’s brilliant.”

Vincent nods and sets the book back down: a strand of hair frees itself and slips down to cover his eye as he keeps his head bowed. He grabs the two remaining books, one in each hand: “And either of these?”

The thicker book is a copy of Gabirel Garcia Márquez’s One hundred years of solitude, in Spanish. It’s probably the most beaten-up book Vincent owns – some of the pages seem to have come loose. The other book is Agatha Christie’s And then then there were none.

“I wouldn’t dare to try read that one in Spanish. My Spanish is about as good as your French.” Thomas answers and hoists himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

“They’re both very good,” Vincent inspects the covers of the books he’s holding, laughing softly.

“I didn’t tell you how I think you handled Tedesco very well yesterday.” Thomas tells him.

“You think so?” Vincent looks straight at him, eyes full of some sort of emotion Thomas can’t decipher.

“Yes,” Thomas nods, swallows hard.

They settle into comfortable silence. Thomas pulls his legs up and leans against the headboard. He’s so comfortable around Vincent, he knows the other man won’t mind. Vincent sets his books on the shelf instead of the nightstand.

“Tea?” He asks afterward.

“That would be lovely,” Thomas nods.

They fail to drink their tea again; it isn’t Vincent who falls asleep this time – it’s Thomas. He dozes off, doesn’t even remember when he began to feel sleep creep into his body, but he’s fast asleep when Vincent returns with two mugs of tea with lemon and honey, one in each hand.

Vincent sighs in disbelief, suppresses a laugh as not to wake him. They can’t keep doing this! Or maybe, just maybe…?

Thomas looks peaceful asleep, as he lays there, fully dressed atop the blanket. He’d slid downward and now lies in a bit of an uncomfortable position. It’s better than how he’d slept in the armchair, though. He looks tranquil. Younger, even. As if all the weight on his shoulders lifted. He looks as handsome as ever.

Vincent changes into his pyjamas, which consist of a different t-shirt and ancient sweatpants, carefully lays an extra blanket over Thomas, switches off the light and then climbs into the bed next to him. If he wakes before Thomas, there should be no trouble – maybe his dear friend won’t even feel embarrassed for falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Thomas wakes up.

He’s all warm and comfortable; he almost can’t believe he slept through a night again. He inhales, exhales, and slowly, ever so slowly realises that he’s not in his own bed. Again.

The ceiling above his head is way too high up and way too fancy, all gilded and painted; the mattress he’s lying on is a bit too soft. He’s lying flat on his back, just like he always sleeps, but his hands are lying flat by his side, not folded on his stomach – there is a hand resting on his stomach though, one that’s not his.

The room is dark – even if it’s December, it must be hours before sunrise. He squints at the hand lying on his stomach palm down, in almost an expression of ownership. It’s small, the fingers are skeletal and long. It’s connected to a wrist that goes up to a forearm and likely an elbow, too. The owner of the elbow is huddled in their blanket like in a cocoon, the forearm sticks out, and a head full of near-black hair; the ball on the other side of the bed is half blanket half human.

Dear God, Thomas fell asleep in the pope’s bed.

Vincent is lying on his side, tangled in his blankets, nearly curled up to Thomas’ side. He’s appropriated a quilt that must’ve covered more of Thomas – it just barely covers him from the hips down now. He looks odd as he sleeps – his muscles have relaxed and it’s weird to see him without his perpetual expression of kindness. But he’s not less beautiful.

Hm, Thomas is not one for profanity, but oh, it comes to him now. Fuck.

His cheeks flush, his heart flutters. It’s overwhelming and he almost can’t breathe - Vincent is angelic.

He can’t do this again, fall asleep in this room, his promise to not act on his growing feelings towards Vincent stands – it has to. Thomas doubts he’s ever been in love over the course of his life. He remembers some vague events before he’d joined seminary straight out of university – but over his decades long servitude to God, he’s never broken his vows.

Vincent – Vincent is right there, though. He’s humanly perfect.

Thomas very carefully shifts. He shuffles closer to the edge of the bed, millimetre by millimetre. Vincent’s hand slowly slides off his stomach and Thomas doesn’t even breathe in hope Vincent doesn’t wake up. Thomas’s plan is to flee – cowardly, yes. Is he embarrassed about that idea? Not really. Because he really, really doesn’t want to do something stupid.

Vincent doesn’t wake up – Thomas moves even further away, and tries to sit up, but he’s just miscalculated: instead of the mattress, his hand braces only against air and he, unceremoniously, lands on the cold hardwood floor with a loud thud.

“Oof,” He lets out involuntarily. He’s too old to fall out of bed.

“¿Qué estás haciendo?” Vincent’s angelic face hangs over the edge of the bed above him, hair acting up adorably.

“Trying not to wake you,” Thomas wheezes. Oh, he’ll have a bruise. “That didn’t hurt at all,” he adds, voice strained.

Vincent gets out of the bed on the other side, walks all the way around it and hoists Thomas up. Thomas always forgets how much strength his lithe frame hides; the ease with which he grasped Thomas’ hand and pulled him up is almost unbelievable.

“I am sorry,” Thomas says.

“What for?” Vincent grins as he inspects Thomas’ hand. “Is your wrist okay? Does it hurt when I do this?” He moves Thomas’ hand like a lever back and forth a few times.

“No, it doesn’t. For… I mean I fell asleep in your bed, Vincent!”

“If I minded, don’t you think I would’ve woken you and sent you on your way? You needed the sleep, Thomas. You always need the sleep.” Vincent starts making the bed ever so casually.

Thomas is a little stunned and very much speechless. He reaches out to help Vincent – he might have the strength of a bear, but he lacks the height to lean all the way over and smooth the blankets out.

"Are you hungry?” Vincent asks. “I have… forty-five minutes before I have to be in the chapel.”

❅❅❅

When Thomas makes it to the offices of the Dean of the Cardinals later that morning, Ray throws himself at him. His face is flushed and shiny; he’s pushing his glasses up every thirty seconds or so.

“I forgot to let cardinal Bellini know the meeting was moved!” The Irishman starts, sounding as if on the brink of hysteria.

“Oh, Ray. It’s fine. Cardinal Bellini was angry with me for another reason – it’s not your fault,” Thomas calms him down. Or at least – tries.

“Bishop de la Cruz from Venezuela called… he’s having some trouble with funding…” Ray continues. “And your schedule is a mess, all the people you were supposed to meet rescheduled.”

“I’ll get to it, Ray, don’t worry,” Thomas settles down at his desk.

Their office is on the ground floor and a typical Vatican space, all gilded and beautiful wood, shiny marble. However, sometime in the eighties, a while before Thomas started working full-time at the Vatican, someone had the idea to stuff the space full of cubicles – those are long gone, but the space is still full of tables cramped close together. It isn’t just the staff of the College there – there are a few archivists there too, and the occasional accountant who has their very own desk, so it’s an exceedingly busy office for Thomas’ taste.

His desk is in a corner – at least he gets that privilege, being half-hidden by a potted palm tree.

He settles down in his chair, takes his fancy new laptop out of his briefcase and opens it up. Aldo always enjoys mocking him and his lack of computer skills – in reality, he’s not as bad at technology as Aldo paints him out to be. Spreadsheets he knows better than most, he can also operate most text editors and emails are easy – of course they are. Why should he know how to edit a video? Why should he need to know the inner workings of Twitter, of all places? Why would he ever need internet lingo? He knows the basics of the Internet – doesn’t really need it, though.

He does have a start-of-workday routine, too.

First, he checks his emails and notes down which ones he needs to reply to later on a memo pad. Then he fires up the BBC or Al Jazeera or the AP and browses the news for a while. The why is simple: to check if there is some new suffering out there. Maybe a natural disaster that took place overnight, or a terror attack, or some sort of accident. When something has taken place, he always contacts the bishop of that diocese and asks what kind of help they need. Simple enough. He prays and then he helps. That’s how it should work. That’s how he does it. Not entirely hands on – he isn’t treading through flood water, or bandaging up wounds, or hiding the persecuted.

He's reallocating the Vatican’s funds, and rather happily at that. He can’t help everyone – but he tries.

After he reads about some of the horrors than happened in the time he hadn’t checked, he turns to the emails and letters and sorts through requests from his brothers cardinals.

It’s busywork. It’s tiring and the muscles in his neck and upper back are usually all knotted when he stands up hours later.

However – once he’s gone through all the new emails and made note of the important ones on that still-snowy Tuesday, he opens the news and finds a veritable storm.

The right-leaning websites are buzzing with debate over whether the pope is gay – Thomas finds that almost hysterical. As if it even matters – celibacy is a word that’s not in their vocabulary, apparently. There are some nasty headlines. One particularly disgusting article features an inverted pink triangle superimposed over Vincent’s face; Thomas slams that browser tab closed, feeling everything-consuming fury. The left-leaning outlets are kind and supportive – a good signal from the Vatican, one of many. Progress, an entry into the 21st century, true Christian spirit of acceptance he reads.

The divide is stark and deeper than the Mariana trench.

There, in the depths of it, the tabloids are swimming. For the consumption of the guilty-pleasure tabloid reader, there are analyses of where Vincent has worked, who he’s worked with, there are people claiming to have known him (Thomas is certain none of Vincent’s actual friends would betray him like that), there are photos of the bracelet on Vincent’s wrist and debates over who gave it to him – who this friend is and whether they are gay.

Thomas hates most of it. It turns his blood into fire; Ray must clearly see how angry he’s made himself; and it had been such a pleasant morning.

“Damn all this!” Thomas curses. It’s rare, but it happens – and he’s just cursed twice in one morning. He slams his laptop shut. He needs air, he needs to see the sky and he desperately wishes for a drink.

He steps into the courtyard through one of the French windows. There are cars parked there and a few large, wheeled trashcans, waiting to be emptied. It’s not as cold as it had been yesterday, grey clouds hang low over the city. It feels like the snow might start turning into sludge soon.

The ocean, Thomas thinks. The sea. To just… stare out at it for a while. Not be closed off by houses and buildings and thick walls all around. To leave Rome for a while. Thomas probably won’t be able to take a break until after Christmas – even then, he isn’t sure it’ll happen.

“Eminence?” The high-pitched voice comes from Lucia – one of the Vatican librarians and archivists. She’s around thirty, a civilian worker. A miraculous medal hangs on a chain around her neck, her smile is shy, a halo of blonde hair shines around her head as she shivers in just a thin cardigan in the doorway.

“Cardinal Gibault is here? Something about how you were supposed to meet yesterday?” She tells him. “I sat him down in one of the armchairs by the heater. His arthritis is getting worse, I think.”

“Grazie, Lucia,” Thomas nods to her, “I’ll be right inside.”

Gibault sits in one of the hideous brown eighties armchairs by one of the ancient cast iron radiators. He’s a man of eighty-one; he’d not voted in the conclave, he’s too old. Thomas has known him for three decades – he has done some wonderful work in the south-west of France, brought some old-fashioned piety to the region, has been a good leader to this flock, if conservative.

“Jean,” Thomas greets him, hoping he sounds pleasant. His anger is still there, bubbling in his chest.

“Thomas,” Jean Gibault nods to him, gravelly serious. Gone is the always smiling Frenchman, an oddity among the cardinals, an oddity among the French.

“Sorry about yesterday. You wanted to discuss the naming of the new bishop of Nimes?” Thomas sits across the little table. The heat of the radiator warms his back.

“Not the issue now, Thomas,” Jean says and smoothly continues, “I am here because I don’t understand how you permitted that… manifesto of perversion could be released!”

Thomas frowns and he feels very tired. “Jean, you can’t be serious.”

“I very much am! He welcomes immigrants. He welcomes the queers! And he’s from Mexico, Thomas. A Mexican pope! What went down at that conclave that you chose him?” Jean waves his hand. His voice is calm but hushed and he speaks swiftly in lightly accented English.

Thomas considers how to go around this. He could argue; he could raise his voice. He could try to disprove all that Jean has so far said. He considers informing him that the first draft of the speech for Christmas literally quotes Elie Wiesel as well as Malala Yousafzai, but in the end, he keeps his mouth shut.

“And there’s a rumour going about that… bracelet was given to him by his lover, Thomas! And someone heard him ask someone if their back hurt in St Peters and if that…”

Thomas stops him. “The bracelet? A child made it for him in Kabul, Jean. The son of his closest co-worker while he was there. And you shouldn’t believe rumours… You know how it all is! If is makes you feel better, I could get you an audience with the Holy Father.” He must be channelling Vincent, because he keeps his composure. Somehow.

“Hm. I’ll choose to believe you – I know you’re a good man, Thomas. Perhaps – yes. I would like to meet the man, between four eyes as you say.” Jean nods. He might be old and just conservative – but he’s always been reasonable. Thomas smiles at him softly and a little awkwardly.

“Sure then,” Thomas stands up to shake hands, “good to see you.”

When Thomas sees a few cardinals and priests have also come to have a chat and that there is a small line forming, he stops Lucia as she heads out of the office, carrying a mug. “I am so sorry to impose on you, but would you be so kind and make me a cup of coffee… I really am sorry but there seems to be a line and-”

She interrupts him: “I don’t really want coffee right now. I was going to make one for you. It seems like you’ll need it, eminence.”

“Thank you.” Thomas breathes out gratefully. God, give me strength.

What follows is argument after argument and defending people’s right to live. It’s exhausting and it’s a lot, but time passes swiftly, and he doesn’t even remember he should eat.

At the end of the day, when it’s already dark outside, inky and shadowy, his arse hurts from the sitting (and the morning tumble) and he hasn’t had anything but Vincent’s breakfast and around six cups of coffee, Aldo enters the office, looks around and his gaze lands on Thomas.

It’s not unlike a hunter who just sizes up their prey.

Chapter Text

Aldo starts zigzagging between the desks and chairs. How long has it been since he was here last? A few weeks? It feels like years ago, so much is different; much has changed and yet it’s all the same.

The sight of Aldo in this office was once comfort; Aldo used to pick him up before dinner, he’d used to come by to gossip or just bring some paperwork and chat for a while. For literal decades, the sight of Aldo’s thinning hair and then his shaved head was the best thing in Thomas’ life. Right now? Thomas considers him a dear friend and yet he is still not happy to see him.

“Hello Aldo,” Thomas says and leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

The sky outside is dark – the snow has begun to melt, everything outside is wet and cold. Yes – another miserable grimy Roman winter. Thomas sits at his desk in the corner of the emptied office, surrounded by empty cups and he watches Aldo very calmly, as his friend makes his way over to him.

Aldo looks in about as good a shape as Thomas – he smells of coffee, as if he’s spilt it over his lap, and very faintly of his aftershave. His glasses are smudged and greasy. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“Good evening, Thomas,” Also grabs a chair and pulls it to Thomas’ desk, like he has done so many times before.

Thomas waits. There’s a reason why Aldo’s here. Thomas still feels deep inside his chest he’s not ready to forgive – had he been a better person, then he would’ve already forgiven Aldo. But Thomas isn’t such a good person; so he waits, watches Aldo shift in his seat in discomfort and waits for him to speak.

“I’ve come to apologise,” Aldo finally says, he sounds odd and looks at his own feet.

“Sure,” Thomas nods.

“Aren’t you going to say it’s alright?” Aldo looks up at him, some intense emotion in his eyes. Either anger or pain or something entirely unintelligible.

“Well, if you’ve come to apologise and expect I will immediately forgive you, then you’re not actually really apologising.” Thomas calmly counters.

“Thomas! How long have we been friends? We can’t let this get between us!” Aldo begs.

“What can’t we let get between us?” Thomas doesn’t understand. He’s spent all day talking to people, there’s a hollow feeling in his stomach and he desperately wants to go to bed, even if he’s pretty certain tonight is one of those nights when he’ll haunt his little flat until long after midnight, wide awake and exhausted at the same time.

“This… scandal, I guess.” Aldo says, voice weak; it sounds like a lie.

“I would’ve thought you’d have been happy that the Church has officially accepted the queer community, Aldo. I’ve spent all day arguing with people about this, I can’t believe you’ve also come to scold me…” Thomas brings his hand to his hair, runs his fingers over it.

“Thomas, of course I am glad that this happened! It’s just maybe you should not be so vocal about this.” Aldo’s cheeks flush.

Thomas frowns ever so slightly. “You’ve been advocating for the gays since the eighties, Aldo. Through the AIDS crisis. Where is this coming from? Shouldn’t you be happy? You’ve always been more vocal than I!”

Being gay in eighties New York was painful; Reagan was the worst. And Aldo had been there through all of it. At the front basically, mocked, harassed, spat at, even. The catholic bishop, relatively young, never officially gay, but always loud about the fact young people, any people, shouldn’t just be left to die.

Thomas remembers Vincent’s Tedesco plan and wonders if the pieces have been set on the board; it’ll be a game, not of chess but a game nonetheless, and Thomas sure hopes Vincent can beat Aldo at it.

“Just… I don’t know Thomas!” Aldo jumps up. “What has happened between us?”

“Nothing! I don’t know why you think something has changed so much! It’s the same Vatican, Aldo!”

“No, it isn’t! He’s here! And you’re with him all the time... Rumours, Thomas! Rumours!” Aldo shouts. It’s accusatory. It’s stupid.

Does… does he mean Vincent? A hypothesis blooms in Thomas’ mind.

Aldo is jealous.

Of whom? Thomas isn’t certain – maybe of Thomas, maybe of the Holy Father, maybe of something Thomas doesn’t understand. Aldo walked into the conclave a pope and left a cardinal – it must hurt, of course.

“What rumours?” Thomas is baffled.

“Forget it.”

“What rumours?” Thomas stresses his words, desperate to know – if there’s anything that could hurt Vincent…

“It’s that you’ve just always been a moderate and now you’re… you’ve changed! I feel like I don’t know you anymore!”

Thomas stands up too, leans over his desk and tells Aldo calmly if a little harshly: “So you just came to argue again? Leave. I don’t want to hear this. You’re being childish. We’ve got a new pope; deal with it!”

They stare daggers at each other.

“Leave before I say something I regret,” Thomas sighs and it makes his heart ache.

Aldo gives him one last look: it’s watery and angry. There’s tension is his shoulders from all the other things he hasn’t said yet – things Thomas doesn’t want to hear. Aldo ponders for a moment; he teeters on the edge of an abyss, of saying more. Then he makes a decision to step away from the edge.

Aldo leaves.

Thomas packs up his laptop and stuffs some of his paperwork into the briefcase mechanically. He can finally finish the seating arrangements at home; he craves sitting by the open window in his living room and finally figuring out where to sit who. Aldo… it’s a bad situation and Thomas isn’t entirely sure how to get out of it; it’s troubling. It’s like he’s tied between two horses and each of them will soon set off in opposite directions.

His phone buzzes. How was your day? Vincent had typed out.

“Pretty shit,” Thomas mutters honestly as he types out: not the best lot of work left to do

Agreed. Spent all day arguing. Vincent fires back.

tell me about it Thomas pulls on his coat, takes his briefcase in his left hand, his phone is in the right and heads out the door. Maybe he’ll go grab take-out: the Vatican gates close in two hours and he really doesn’t want to cook.

Hope you’ll be in bed soon. We have that meeting at 9. Is the message that comes just as Thomas passes through the door and steps into the cold air.

It’s cold but not freezing anymore – pitiful little hills of half-melted snow remain. Everything is wet and if at any point in the night the temperature drops under zero, he’ll be skating around the streets in the morning.

i remember see you in the morninf Thomas types, it’s difficult with one hand.

Good night. Vincent wishes him.

Dear God! Thomas stops dead in his tracks. It’s great that it’s the middle of the night – a car would’ve hit him, because he’s just stopped in the middle of the street.

When has someone last wished him a good night? Thomas doesn’t remember. It’s a warm feeling.

He goes and gets food from one of the usual spots he frequents – the girl in the window knows him; she piles a bit extra pasta in the take-out box, struggles to close it and then gives him a discount. Thomas is around ninety percent sure she knows who he is – at least that he’s a priest, and even if she usually piles on a little extra, she never gives him a discount. Thomas has no energy to think about why she gave him one today of all days. The tourist in line behind Thomas complains, but Thomas has no energy left to argue either and leaves him to her. By her loud exclamations, he can tell she can handle the idiot by herself.

Thomas climbs up to his flat; he settles on his couch, open his laptop, mindlessly eats the pasta and at two in the morning, he’s finally finished with the seating roster. If Vincent saw him, he would not have been happy.

He climbs into his bed, drained and feeling like he’d gotten run over by a truck.

Even then, he doesn’t shut his eyes for very long. His alarm rings at seven and he’s already wide awake; sleep had eluded him. He climbs out of bed, shaves, gets dressed – drinks a too large cup of coffee and heads out to do some work at the office before his meeting at the papal offices. He’s got to submit the seating roster so that nametags can be placed and security better organised, then there’s surely at least one email from de la Cruz in Venezuela.

Early in the morning, no one’s ever in the office. It finally feels like an office of his own, not a busy railway station. It’s peaceful as he works, the light of day slowly creeps in.

A few minutes before nine, he grabs his laptop and heads out of the office just as some of the first people start arriving – yesterday’s saviour Lucia among them; Thomas gives her a warm smile.

It’s a short journey up the stairs to get to the official papal offices and when Thomas makes it there, he finds the door wide open.

He has a good view through the door without being noticed: Sister Agnes is already sitting inside, sipping coffee, chatting with Vincent. She’s as animated as Thomas has even seen her, her round face full of emotion. Vincent sits on his desk, feet dangling in the air, smiling brightly, entirely lost in the conversation. His hair glows under the yellowish light of the electric chandelier above his head. His position is incredibly casual and relaxed, shoulders a little hunched, as he actively listens to Sister Agnes’ story. Thomas soaks the scene up for a few seconds and then walks in.

“Good morning, Sister, Your Holiness,” he greets them both.

Vincent smiles at him. “Sister Agnes was just telling me about the French Alps,” he says, his teeth shine in a modest smile.

“Oh?” Thomas smiles at Agnes.

“I grew up there,” she explains simply. “A lot of snow in the French Alps.”

Adeyemi walks into the room, closely followed by Sabbadin and Tremblay. Sabbadin, the camerlengo, comes closer to Thomas. “Thank you for the seating roster.” He mutters. “Truly a nightmare, thank you for the help.”

Thomas nods curtly and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Vincent slips off his desk and walks over to the little spread of snacks and coffee. “Have you had breakfast?” He says to Thomas, voice very low.

Thomas knows his glance at Vincent is guilty. No, he hasn’t eaten.

Vincent silently piles a few biscuits onto a little plate and forces it into Thomas’ hand. He avoids grabbing the ones with raisins – Vincent likes them, but maybe he’s noticed Thomas doesn’t… A flush washes over Thomas as he helplessly lets the plate be pushed into his hand.

He goes to sit down in his usual armchair, balances his laptop in his lap.

The Commandante of the Swiss Guard walks in, checks in with Horace who’s been standing by the door all this time. He takes biscuits, too, building a little tower on his plate.

Tedesco and Aldo enter the office together and neither acknowledges Thomas’s presence; ah, yes. Vincent’s game is afoot.

Ray is the last one to rush into the room, all flushed cheeks and shiny forehead. Thomas smiles at him warmly.

There’s a little over a week left until Christmas; this meeting is spent mostly discussing how the preparations are going. Pilgrims are already flooding into Rome, there’s a lot to be prepared, decorated, organised. The problem is Vincent has not yet named his Prefect of the Papal household, so everyone is sort of sharing that responsibility.

Thomas takes notes on his laptop, and he notices just how much input sister Agnes has; he exchanges a few looks with Vincent, as if they’re on the same brainwave.

As the conversation goes on, Thomas chews his biscuits and chimes in often, sharing his opinion on everything from suggested times of arrival to the exact spacing of chairs. There’s an odd feeling in his stomach; the love he has for Vincent tries to claw upward as he eats and as he speaks, he fears they’ll all somehow know.

Aldo is pretty quiet, but Thomas doesn’t care or mind; yesterday’s argument is still fresh in his mind, all bitter and ugly. He wants to still be friends with Aldo – but they both need time. Thomas surely does, he needs to deal with his own doubt and faith before he can take on Aldo’s sorrow.

“We have to ah, make sure the square is properly sectioned out. You remember last year, Thomas, don’t you?” Adeyemi was just saying.

“Yes.” Thomas nods automatically. He remembers; it had been up to Janusz, and it had been a mess.

The conversation moves on; the Commandante gives Vincent a very thick folder; a security briefing, which Vincent if not happily, then responsibly accepts. Thomas knows the Late Holy father only briefly perused those things – they’re always hefty and at least three hundred pages. Vincent takes it and places it on a rather prominent spot on his desk.

Thomas stresses that this is their first big challenge – Innocent XIV was elected at probably the worst time of the year a pope could be elected. The Vatican may be filled with old faces, but their roles have been reshuffled, the dynamics have changed.

Tremblay shares his progress with the youth groups – Vincent had invited a lot of young people to come and experience Christmas at the Vatican. There are busses and special trains heading to Rome, loaded with the youth – Tremblay is the one who’s handling that. Thomas is glad to see the man looks better than the last few years; somehow more relaxed, as if he knows now what really matters.

Ah yes; Vincent’s game – Adeyemi helping the sisters, Tremblay working with people who are young and bright and excited to be part of the Church for all the right reasons; having Aldo spend time with Tedesco.

Thomas sure hopes it’ll work out.

In the end, the meeting doesn’t run long for once. Thomas waits patiently for everyone to file outside.

“The snow melted,” Vincent turns to him as Tedesco is the last to finally disappear in the door frame.

“Yes,” Thomas laughs in surprise.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t happen.” Vincent frowns slightly.

“It’s still over a week until Christmas,” Thomas watches the white-clothed figure move around the desk. “It wouldn’t’ve survived, not with our luck. At least it won’t be so cold.” He adds and remembers if he told Ray to order that larger cassock or not.

“Would’ve been nice.” Vincent mutters. He gathers his laptop, some paperwork and the security briefing.

“You would’ve frozen, Vincent,” Thomas huffs in disbelief. At least the air outside isn’t so frigid now – at least the wind blowing doesn’t feel like shards of glass.

“Jánusz – archbishop Woźniak - has resigned his post as the Prefect.” The pope announces softly.

“I remember, Vincent, I am old but not that old,” Thomas jokes, and it makes the pope laugh in a rare glimpse of his teeth.

“No, no – sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. I meant – I wanted to ask you if you still agree there should be women in the Curia.” Vincent grows serious.

“Yes. Yes,” Thomas nods fervently.

“Because I thought that perhaps Sister Agnes would like a promotion.” Vincent begins playing with the pure white fabric of his cassock.
Sister Agnes is one of the most capable people Thomas has ever met – and that’s him saying it. She may be French and strict and a bit of a micro manager, but that might be just what the papal household needs right now; and sister Judith, Agnes’ closest student, may be a little young (only forty-something) to replace her mentor, if that’s who Vincent has in mind to run the Daughters, but she’s also very bright, a whole lot chattier and has been adopting her mentor’s eagle-eyed look and Thomas thinks she’s rather good at it. The Swede would be a great fit.

It occurs to Thomas that he and sister Agnes are not entirely dissimilar, working hard but not entirely tirelessly.

“And her position at the Daughters of Charity would be filled by sister Judith? Hm. Yes, perhaps that is a very good idea, Vincent.” Thomas nods, looking away at an empty armchair where sister Agnes had just been sitting. “Do it,” he nods. “Whenever you announce new appointments… do it. Well, maybe ask her first.”

“I will,” Vincent laughs. “I’ve got the meeting with the Italian prime minister this afternoon… I told her to come to the office at six. Maybe you could come too?”

Vincent always refers to the office in his apartment as ‘the office’ as if it’s the only office, the singular office, the only one that matters. It’s where it’s messy and crowded and Thomas has spent more than a handful of late nights there – perhaps tonight will be another.

“I’ll be there at six, then.” Thomas nods – he has his own meetings, and he should go eat some lunch, he supposes. Six it is, then.

It warms him from the inside, the thought of yet another evening in Vincent’s orbit. He leaves for his office, looking forward to six o'clock.

Chapter Text

Thomas shuts his laptop and massages the bridge of his nose, glasses pushed upward.

That morning meeting in the papal offices feels like it had been years ago. Just after he got to the office, Wilhelm had ambushed him with some spreadsheets – they spent three hours poring over them, huddled together, not even taking a break to get coffee. Then, when Wilhelm leaves, Sabbadin comes and dumps a veritable avalanche of Christmas-related paperwork on Thomas, who spends the next four hours combing through it. After that, he finally gets enough time to go through his own emails again. Lucia shows up and tries to do office small talk with him, by which he is a little confused because no one ever tries to chit-chat with him.

He decides to see it as a compliment, because Lucia keeps smiling at him brightly and brings him a coffee.

Her attempts at office small talk are interrupted by a call from the American president’s team; they want to go over the security measures again. He explains to them that’s not really his forte but then decides to just try and answer the woman on the other end of the line as best he can.

They probably read in his biography that he spent a while in America as the papal nuncio; they disregard Aldo’s New York-bred Italian American heritage and decide to talk to Thomas, as someone who knows their country well but is not American – it’s a wildly spun theory, yes, but he rather likes it. Because why else would they keep calling him? It’s absurd, it’s frustrating.

At that point, it’s a quarter to six and he hasn’t eaten anything at all since those biscuits in the morning.

He’s surprised he doesn’t have a headache. The staring at a screen combined with the hunger and too-much caffeine… well, he’s thankful that God did not send a migraine his way, is all. Vincent will be able to tell all of it, tough.

He shuts his laptop. Just as he’s about to leave, Ray marches into the office and makes a beeline for Thomas.

“What is it, Ray?” Thomas is aware he sounds like he really doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

Ray just silently hands over an envelope. It’s dirty and pretty thin; the stamp and postal markings tell Thomas it had reached them all the way from Mexico.

“I thought you’d like to hand-deliver it.” Ray explains.

Thomas gratefully nods even if he has no idea what it's about. “That I would. Thank you. Have a nice evening, Ray.”

He sets off to climb a few flights of stairs to reach the Papal apartment.

As he’s about to turn a corner, a sweet smell hits him in the nose. Watermelon probably? Some chemical attempt at what a watermelon smells like, anyway. Thomas hides the envelope in the folds of the loose fabric of his cassock.

Goffredo stands directly in Thomas’ path, there’s no way to avoid him.

“Oh, hello,” Thomas knows he sounds tired.

“Tomasso,” Tedesco laughs and opens his arms wide.

“I really don’t have the time, Goffredo.” Thomas shakes his head. He just… wants to go to Vincent, as odd a feeling as it is.

“That’s what I’m here to discuss. I think… ah, vuoi portare una donna in chiesa!“ Goffredo takes a hit off his vape and blows the smoke directly at Thomas.

Thomas waves his hand in front of his face to make the stench dissipate faster; it doesn’t do much. “Aspetta, Goffredo. Come tutti gli altri. It’s his Holiness’ decision.”

Tedesco frowns and blows another cloud of smoke into Thomas’s face.

“Can you stop that?!” Thomas barks at him.

By that, Tedesco looks surprised. “Scusa.” He mutters and hides the vape away.

“Good.” Thomas nods and sets off.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you! This will have ah, conseguenze!” Tedesco shouts after him.

Thomas just waves his hand at where his voice is coming from, disappearing down the hallway.

The red skirt of his cassock sings about his ankles, his briefcase feels heavier than usual as he clutches the envelope. It’s Enzo on guard again; Thomas mutters his greeting as the young man smiles at him brightly. Tedesco, Aldo, Vincent, the odd weather; it’s all spinning in his mind, and he wishes he’d had lunch – a migraine might just be descending upon him. The disgusting smoke hadn’t helped.

He knocks and slips inside the apartment without waiting for an answer; there’re voices coming from the living room.

“Good evening, Your Holiness,” Thomas yells.

Vincent pokes his head out of the living room door. “We’ve started without you, sorry. Sister Agnes was early and you’re a bit late.”

“No problem.” Thomas nods.

“There’s food from the Casa Santa Marta in the kitchen. Go take some,” Vincent encourages him.

In that moment, Thomas feels like he might start crying. Or kiss Vincent. Or kiss sister Agnes. Or all of that. He does none of it and heads to the kitchen. There’s a stainless-steel container, one that holds food warm for a while, full of pasta. Now, he might actually tear up. He resists just eating the food straight out of the container and puts about half on a plate, like a sane person would.

He does take the plate into the living room, though, to eat off while it balances on his knees.

He finds Vincent, sister Agnes and sister Judith, each sitting in a little armchair, deep in debate. Their tea is growing cold on the conference table between them.

“No, I would give you all the same duties as bishop Woźniak had! Of course.” Vincent says just as Thomas sinks onto the couch.

“It would be an honour,” sister Agnes nods. “If Judith here agrees, too.”

Thomas digs into the pasta hungrily. Judith smiles at him, cheeks pink, her bright blue eyes shining in her long, narrow face, and then looks back at the pope.

“Of course!” she smiles widely. “I can come for advice any time, though?” She glances at Agnes a little nervously, a blonde strand of hair peeking out from under her veil. That a Swede – less than five percent of Swedes are catholic – would lead one of the Vatican’s important orders? A success.

“Peut-être.” Sister Agnes winks in a rare joke.

Vincent grins. “Then we are agreed, are we not?”

“Oui. We are.” Siter Agnes nods, her round face full of emotion. Her smile is actually radiant, Thomas thinks. This will be good for the Vatican and for the Church. In the long run, at least.

“Cardinal Lawrence will send you all the paperwork, no? Thomas?” Vincent turns to Thomas.

“Oh, sure. Yes. I can do that.” Thomas nods. He’s sure he can assemble all the necessary documentation; all the recent inventories and spreadsheets and who works where and what their names are.

“If it doesn’t need photocopying.” Agnes pokes fun at him.

Thomas cackles. “It won’t.”

“I’ll have a statement naming you as the Prefect released, then, tomorrow morning.” Vincent stands up.

He shakes hands with Agnes and then accompanies both women to the door. Thomas hears them say something else to one another, but then the heavy door shuts and Vincent returns, not wearing a pleasant expression anymore, but one of having survived a very long day.

“Everything alright?” Thomas asks just before he scrapes up the last of the pasta.

“I am just tired, that’s all. I have that security briefing to get started on.” Vincent replies and sits down on the couch next to Thomas.

“I can join you in the office?” Thomas suggests.

Vincent looks at him for a while, not saying a word. “I’d like that.”

“Oh, wait.” Thomas remembers the filthy mysterious envelope. “Here. Ray gave it to me to pass on.”

Vincent hesitates and then takes it.

He inspects it for a long moment, looking it over, from the filthy smudges to the stamp. He turns it over in his hands. Thomas thinks he might sniff it, even.

“Can you… can you?” Vincent hands it back.

Thomas silently accepts. He slowly rips the envelope and expects the letter to be in Spanish – it is not. It’s in English, tightly printed letters sit oddly in the middle, the page somewhat empty – it’s addressed to Ray, and so Thomas assumes Vincent had asked Ray to write the request, whatever it was, for him.

“What is this?” Thomas looks up after he’s read the first few words.

“I was left at an orphanage when I was four, Thomas. I barely remember my mother. I thought… Dios mío, I don’t know what I thought… What does it say?”

“It says that they just don’t know.” Thomas hands the letter over. A deep sadness unfurls in his chest – he remembers his family, he has fond memories of a mother and a sister. With a dead father, yes, but a warm, loving, devout mother who’d take them to the sea and who set him down the path that ultimately led to the Vatican. Vincent has none of that.

“It was silly, anyway. I am old, it’s not like they’d keep records that old.” Vincent mutters.

“Are you… alright?” Thomas asks carefully.

Vincent shifts on the couch next to him. “Yes. Oddly, yes.”

Thomas goes to make tea; they move to the office where Vincent squeezes the security briefing to lay flat on his desk between two towers of paperwork and Thomas settles down by the window, setting his teacup on a stack of folders and his laptop on his knee. He has to assemble all the materials tonight. He doubts he’ll have time in the days to come – he expects another news-cycle to start tomorrow, except instead of gay it’ll be about woman.

Thomas spends a few moments watching Vincent flip pages before he dives deep into ones and zeros. He seems to be taking the briefing seriously. Good. That’s good.

Thomas remembers the medical files he’d read during the Conclave well. Appendectomy scar; a cluster of shrapnel wounds; a stab wound in his shoulder; a burn down his thigh. Oh, Thomas knows – it’s good that Vincent takes his own safety seriously.

He taps away on his laptop for three hours or so; Vincent keeps flipping pages. He’s about one third through when he gets up and mutters something about going to bed. He leaves Thomas to his own devices – as he’s done before. Soon enough, Thomas hears the shower turn on.

Vincent doesn’t return and Thomas goes make himself a cup of coffee. If he gets this done before midnight, he can maybe get a bit of sleep in his own bed… if he’s able to, anyway. With the coffee, he battles on – but a list of all the civilians who work at the Vatican eludes him. He could’ve sworn it was right here but it isn’t.

When he finally finds it, having gone down a few other rabbit holes, and looks up – it’s half past one in the morning. Not again.

He considers his options. Track home, get little to no sleep, track back into the Apostolic palace. Stay here, get no sleep, but not have to walk anywhere. Go downstairs to his office, get no sleep.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to make the decision himself. Unfortunately, it’s Vincent’s unconscious which makes it for him.

A sound comes from the pope’s bedroom – something between a cry, a moan and a sob. Thomas is on his feet before it’s even rung around in his head. This has happened before – two times, to be precise – and each time, Vincent had sent him home.

“Vincent?” Thomas raps his knuckles against the bedroom door.

“Tómas?” The word is somehow… cracked, almost shattered.

Thomas slips inside the room. A few hours ago, he’s slipped off his cassock and now wears his blacks; he’s glad of that now, as he enters Vincent’s bedroom, full of his smell, full of sleep, in just his shirt and trousers, socked-feet silent on the hardwood.

Vincent reaches around and switches a little lamp on. In the yellow light, in the harsh shadows, he looks like he’d stepped straight off the screen of an old expressionist horror film.

“Are you alright?” Thomas asks carefully.

Yes. He expects. Go home, Thomas. Go get some sleep.

“No.” Vincent says instead.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Thomas pulls the armchair, his armchair, closer by the bed.

Vincent sits upright, tangled in his blankets, his hair sticks up on one side of his head. He looks… fragile. It scares Thomas and he just wants to hug him and not let go.

“You… you know I get nightmares.” He starts softly.

Thomas only nods.

“Well… they’re always basically the same. They rarely change. I first saw a person die at fourteen. But… I never felt like it was my fault until I was thirty-eight. In Congo.”

“Is this… do you want to confess?” Thomas’ voice breaks. Sheer horror floods his limbs; a cold flash covers him from the top of his head down to his toes.

“Oh, I’ve confessed this a thousand times.” Vincent laughs and it’s raspy. “I told you Zola and Kimani had died in a bombing, haven’t I?”

Thomas’s heart doesn’t dare to beat.

“Well, it happened at a market. Open-air. Zola, and Kimani, and I, and a couple other women were there. For… an outing, I suppose. Kimani had wandered off – something caught her attention, you know how children can be.” Vincent pauses, lost deep in memories. “She wandered off and Zola had been haggling with this man to buy something for cheaper – I don’t even remember what. I don’t remember who it was that noticed Kimani was gone either… but in my nightmares, it’s me. Well, we noticed and… panic started. We set out in a few directions to go look for her… I went in the wrong direction, Thomas. I picked the wrong direction…” Vincent gasps.

“You can’t have known!” Thomas insists and grabs his hand. It’s warm and dry.

“I should’ve! I should’ve, Thomas!” Vincent whisper-yells and he clings to Thomas’ hand.

“What happens in your dreams?” Thomas asks, not really wanting to, but not seeing another way out.

“In my dreams, I am at a market – they all melt in my mind into one, Mexico, Congo, Arabia – and I am running, frantic, looking for someone. Sometimes it’s Kimani, sometimes Zola, in Afghanistan it was Nadira or Mohammed, most times. The market is a labyrinth, and I can’t find them and there are so many people everywhere and none of them are who I’m looking for.” Vincent’s voice is shockingly quiet. “And then the blast… Thomas, I sometimes don’t know how I can live with myself.”

“You can’t have known which way to go!” Thomas repeats.

Vincent turns his large brown eyes to him and they’re full of tears.

In that moment, Thomas decides.

“I was young – thirteen or fourteen. We lived in Northern England in a village on a hill. My mother, my sister and me. The hill was above the village, and we were the second to last house on that road… My mother would drive my sister to her school in town and then go to work. I cycled. Well – I went down the hill on my bike in the morning and then pushed the bike up the hill in the afternoon.” Thomas pauses. He, unlike Vincent, had never confessed this.

“I was lanky and could run faster than anyone else – my classmates never dared pick on me. They all also knew the local priest had been friends with my father, and so they didn’t want to anger the old man. But there was a boy – Jaime had been his name. He and his mother lived in the house up the road from our house – his father was dead or gone in the wind or married to another woman… I don’t know. Maybe I never knew.”

Vincent hangs on Thomas’ every word.

“The other children bullied him terribly. Jaime and his mother were poor – dirt poor. One time they tried to pick on him and I got in the way – they didn’t dare try anything with me in the way. And that was the start – he was sharp, smart, and we lived on the same road, and we’d talk on our way to and from school. He’d sit on the bike rack over the back wheel, and we’d drop down the hill together.”

He takes a deep breath, and it takes all his willpower to continue. He looks away, somewhere above all of Vincent’s drawings taped to the wall.

“We’d been friends for a few months – it was a beautiful spring day when it all ended. We sat in a field, talking. He, um – he leaned over and kissed me. I’d reacted poorly: I pulled away in shock. At that age I had only education and my faith on my mind, I think. I’d been slow in that way. I had always been a quiet child, so unlike my sister. I’d pulled back and…” Thomas pauses. The memories flood back in, of ages long gone, of Northern England and it’s stark beauty.

“Someone saw him kiss me – someone saw us kiss. Vincent,” Thomas dares to glance at Vincent, “they nearly killed him. They beat him bloody. He was purple all over. And I didn’t… I just ignored it, forgot him.”

Vincent watches him silently and with and intense gleam in his eye says: “You… can’t have known.”

“And yet it happened. Was it my fault? I don’t know. His mother packed them off to London soon after. I sure hope he did well in London.” Thomas’ voice breaks. “We both have terrible things to live with.”

They sit in the dark room for a while, silent.

Jaime hadn’t been the first to kiss Thomas; Mary Peterson, the post lady’s daughter, with scraped knees and flower-print dresses, had kissed him earlier and he’d had a very similar reaction to when Jaime had kissed him: solely surprise. Then at university, in dim smoke-saturated pub air, he remembers how the curve of Maggie’s hip felt under his hand as they danced. She’d only been a friend of a friend; but she kissed him too, after he’d walked her home. He’d probably left her disappointed, standing on the sidewalk in front of her house.

A few months later, after graduating, he joined the seminary.

He never looked back; he’d used to be tempted when he was younger, oh yes – but he never regretted his choice.

Now, as Vincent sits in his little nest of blankets, Thomas wonders what would happen if he were to lean over and press his lips to Vincent’s – he’s not going to do it. No – he can’t. He just simply can not. To compromise this friendship, to ruin it, to break both of their decades of celibacy would mean he could never look Vincent in the eye again.

He thinks about it all the time - what Vincent’s lips would taste like - and in this very moment, he almost does it. The temptation is powerful. It’s all-consuming.

“You should go back to sleep,” he tells Vincent instead.

“I don’t think I could. Thomas… I was looking for you in that market tonight.” A whispered answer comes.

Chapter Text

This is what it must’ve felt like, Thomas thinks. This is what it must’ve felt like, to face death and not be afraid. Because if it came to it now he wouldn’t’ve been afraid to die. If someone arrived, to murder him for his faith, he wouldn’t’ve fought – he’d hold his chin up.

Thomas – and he’d never admit this out loud - never truly understood the martyrs of old proudly facing certain death. Saint Catherine’s brave order for her execution to commence after the breaking wheel fell apart under her touch. Saint Thomas of Canterbury exclaiming “I am not a traitor but a bishop and priest of God!” before the blades pierced his body. Joan of Arc’s bravery in the face of flames. Saint Maxmilian Kolbe offering his veins to welcome poison.

All of it, Thomas knows – with all of it, Thomas is familiar, deeply. Has been for decades.

But now, when Vincent looks at him like this, having admitted it is Thomas in his nightmare of losing a loved one… well. It probably should be disturbing, learning that you died in someone’s dreams. It isn’t.

Thomas finds himself feeling like he’s in a quiet, eerily silent nave, saturated with myrrh, the cold ambience of ancient stone and the soft warmth of wood pews, the dim light of a few candles and ghosts past. Then, the heavy, grey clouds outside part; a single bean of sunlight, fresh, delicate passes through the stained glass above and hits him.

He feels touched by God.

“What would you like, then, Vincent? Anything.” Thomas manages to say. Somehow, the words flow out of his dry throat.

“Could we… could we go to the turtle pond?” Vincent asks.

The turtles are deep in brumation. The cold days have surely sent them into a state of deep rest, every one of them.

“Yes.” Thomas nods curtly. He stands up and goes to fetch Vincent’s sweater, trousers, coat, socks. Leaving Vincent to put his clothes on, Thomas pulls his own coat on and then steps into the corridor.

“Enzo?” He whispers, and yet his voice echoes in corridor.

The young man emerges from the shadow. “Yes, eminence?”

“The Holy Father and I are going for a walk – just to the gardens. I hoped… I hoped it could be private.” Thomas requests gently.

Enzo glances at the door to the papal apartment. “I really… I really shouldn’t, eminence. It’s…” He sighs. “I don’t know…”

“Please, Enzo. This is entirely spontaneous. Nobody will know where we are. And – if the Commandante finds out, tell him it was all my responsibility.” Thomas pleads.

Enzo hesitates.

Thomas waits a moment, knowing silence can sometimes pull the heavy weight.

Enzo nods. “Fine then. But! You take this,” Enzo pulls his backup radio from his belt, “I am on channel six. You press six, hold this button and talk. If there’s an emergency, information will be broadcast on all the channels.”

Thomas gratefully nods. “We’ll be back in an hour. Or less.”

He dips back into the apartment, straightens the collar of Vincent’s dusty black coat that hasn’t been worn since the conclave, and they slip outside again together. It’s almost like Enzo winks at Thomas – he decides to ignore it.

Vincent looks almost like a civilian. It’s an oddly beautiful sight; as they walk through the echoey corridors, unseen and unheard, Vincent brightens up a little. Just a little – but he does.

“When do you think they’ll wake up?” He asks, voice low, as Thomas uses his keycard and unlocks a door that will allow them to slip into the Vatican gardens.

“The turtles? Oh. Maybe April?” Thomas replies.

It feels illicit to be here. For once, almost no one knows where Innocent XIV is. For once, there isn’t a Swiss Guard shadowing them. For once, Thomas can lay his hand in the small of Vincent’s back and lead him around as they set off down a gravel path.

The sky is an unnatural navy blue – it’s too warm of a colour, there are no stars to be seen in the city’s bright lights. Light pollution and all, Thomas is glad that at least the noise of Rome doesn’t reach the gardens. The little rocks and sand crunch under their feet. The temperature is somewhere around zero degrees Celsius – little clouds of condensed breath rise from Vincent’s lips.

The turtle fountain (or pond, as characterised by Vincent) sits still. No moving shells half-peeking out of the water. No little mouths or eyes and little stubby legs.

It is still an incredible place, though – calm and relaxing and Thomas is pretty certain, when he thinks about it a little deeper, that it’s actually Vincent by his side that makes him feel like this.

“Are you looking forward to Christmas?” Thomas finally asks.

It’s in less than a handful days – there’s a Sunday before it, though, and then all of the diplomats and pilgrims will flood in, and mayhem will begin.

“Oh, yes,” Vincent nods. “I’ve never gotten to celebrate the birth of Christ on such a large scale. It will be beautiful, I’m sure.”

“We’ll see what you’ll be saying afterward,” Thomas mutters and shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. “We should’ve brought a Thermos of tea.”

“Probably.” Vincent cackles, then grows serious. “You never… you never talk about your sister, Tómas.”

“Oh, don’t I? We do talk, if that’s what you’re wondering about. She’s just busy – she’s a grandmother now, you see. My niece had twins four years ago.” Thomas explains.

“Oh?” Vincent’s face lights up.

“They live in North Devon, now. By the sea.” Thomas adds.

“What does she do?”

“My sister? She was an accountant. She’s retired now. And Olivia, my niece is an art teacher. She married a rich banker, so she can afford to be an art teacher,” Thomas mumbles on. “The twins are Thomas and Patrick.”

Vincent nods. In the dim light, the few grey hairs around his ears look like spun gold.

Thomas checks his watch. The hands, painted with fluorescent blue green, tell him it’s twenty minutes to three in the morning.

“I remember very little of the woman that left me at the orphanage. I just think she was my mother… She had cried, though. Leaving me behind. I like to think she had no other choice.” Vincent confides in Thomas.

“I am certain she had no other choice.” Thomas nods sternly.

“I didn’t have a bad childhood, Thomas. Perhaps a little lonely, but not a bad one.” Vincent adds, looking away across the softly uphill rolling grass, interrupted by a neatly trimmed bush or the occasional bench.

“That’s good. That’s really good, Vincent.” Thomas says curtly.

“I owe most of my life to the church and its people. I truly hope I’m not making many mistakes.”

“You’re not. You’re the pope!” Thomas is so startled he laughs a little. “And they’d let you know: Aldo and Giulio and Goffredo. And the rest of them. I’d be very gentle, though.”

Vincent turns his eyes to him, grateful, a little smile playing on his lips.

They set off down the path; it’s too cold to not move, to stand in one place for too long. Thomas adjusts his gait to Vincent’s shorter steps, and they must look like two ghosts, huddled in their coats, walking around the Vatican gardens in a city that’s older than Christianity itself in the dead of night.

“What would you have been if you hadn’t become a priest?” Vincent asks.

“A little late for a career change, isn’t it?” Thomas grins.

“¡Lo decía en serio!”

“I don’t know. A teacher, probably. Or a fisherman. I think I would’ve liked to work on a boat.” Thomas replies the best he can. “And you?”

“Doctor.” Vincent fires back. “Had I been better at school. Or a nurse.”

They keep walking, only the crunch of gravel under their feet audible.

“Have your sister and her daughter ever visited you here?” A question comes just as they pass a perfectly trimmed, very round globular bush that casts a shadow over Vincent’s features.

“Around… eight years ago, I think.” Thomas replies and almost can’t believe it’s been that long. He’s seen his sister maybe… twice since then.

“Wouldn’t you like to invite them again?” Vincent eyes him from the side.

“Maybe in the summer. Summers are slow. You’ll see how busy we’ll be before Easter.” Thomas glances at him.

“You’ve mentioned that.” Vincent nods. After a while, he continues, having changed the topic entirely: “The Commandante keeps suggesting I use the Popemobile, you see. But I think they’re silly. It wouldn’t feel right.”

Thomas sometimes marvels at the strings of thoughts that run through this man’s brain.

“There’s no safer option than bullet-proof glass, his job is to keep you safe. But I do see why you wouldn’t like it.” Thomas replies.

“There’re are probably… thirty pages in the security dossier on that topic.” Vincent says sheepishly.

“Oh, he does that, yes. He speaks in paperwork.” Thomas nods.

Vincent nods, too, deep in thought. “I’ll think about it.”

They continue walking. The gravel crushes under their feet, it crunches and grinds against itself. The sound grates pleasantly against Thomas’s ears. His mind slips away to the next few days, to Sunday mass and the breakfast afterward, to Christmas and then the new year.

“We can probably go back home,” Vincent announces as they pass a bench. “Enzo will have bit his nails down to the meat in worry, I think.”

Thomas grins. “Sure. Whatever you’d like.”

❅❅❅

Thomas’ second rodeo with the news cycle would’ve gone better had he known where he left his reading glasses.

As he deals with even more cardinals complaining that there is a woman now among them, as journalists bother him, both well-meaning and malevolent, as he ploughs through final Christmas preparations, he does so while squinting at any and all writing.

It’s painful and frustrating.

Vatican elevates woman for first time in history he reads, sleep deprived and sitting above a large mug of coffee, the afternoon after Sister Agnes’s promotion is announced. Who is Sister Agnes, Jeanne-Marie Lombard? asks one article. Two millenia of tradition broken explains another newspaper, in large bold letters across their entire website. Libtard pope gives participation trophy to woman makes Thomas seethe in anger and it isn’t even the worst title out there.

Win for the ladies: Pope Innocent names a woman as a high-ranking Vatican official and You go girl! Run the papal household! restore his faith in humanity a bit, though.

Crossing St Peters square becomes interesting – he does it once and then decides it’s not worth it and takes the longer routes, trekking through the intestines of Vatican instead. There are people with signs, yelling, screaming in the square; they’ve come from many places – Thomas suspects some of them are only angry tourists who actually aren’t catholic, but that is also scary, the impact of Vincent’s choices.

Worth it in the long run, he reminds himself. Vincent is capable of handling all of this; the man, as a catholic bishop, made it out of Afghanistan alive. But Thomas worries – none of the reforms of the late Holy Father have elicited such an explosive reaction. Innocent XIV hasn’t been inaugurated for even a month. And yes, Vincent has an unnatural knack for diplomacy, but it might not be enough this time.

So Thomas avoids the yelling crowd in St Peters square – it’s probably thirty odd people, disturbing pilgrims and peaceful tourists and making the Swiss Guard jittery, but it’s not pleasant. He and Giulio Sabbadin spend a solid half-hour talking Vincent out of going outside to talk to them.

“You’ll get hit with a tomato, Your Holiness,” Sabbadin had said and meant it only half-in-joke.

“It’s dangerous, Your Holiness,” Thomas had nodded. “Terrible idea. Truly. You can’t talk to every single one of them.”

Vincent stares out of the window of the papal offices and Thomas can see it eats away at him.

The French prime minister calls Vincent and thanks him – a lot of European leaders, led by the Icelandic prime minister and the German chancellor sign an open letter praising the decision. The Hungarian prime minister calls the pope a liberal snowflake. The Polish president makes a remark that doesn’t go down well with the Polish public and soon after apologises for his words. The American president mocks Vincents and questions whether he’s sound of mind; apparently being from Mexico means you’re not a human.

It’s all a mess: Thomas sleeps very little and eats even less; attends Vincent’s mass everyday since the impromptu visit to the Vatican gardens.

On Friday, Aldo barges into his office again. It’s three in the afternoon. Thomas has just been typing up his reply to the American president’s team – Ray had to make the font size on his laptop about ten points larger. His glasses are nowhere to be found, but Thomas is certain that as soon as he gets a new pair, he’ll find the old one – also, he has a creeping suspicion they’re somewhere in Vincent’s office, probably lodged between little mountains of paperwork and folders.

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” Is the first thing Aldo asks.

“I can’t find them,” is what Thomas replies. “What do you want, Aldo?”

They’re cordial now – polite. Neither of them explodes into argument. Thomas doesn’t know whether to assign it to Aldo’s cold and stern personality, Goffredo’s influence or some entirely different reason.

“I need a few signatures.” Aldo says laconically and hands over a stack of documents. Thomas grabs the magnifying glass – on loan from Lucia, a rectangular piece of thick glass with a little handle she uses for inspecting old documents. Yes, it is ridiculous to be using it on standard size twelve print with one-point-five line spacing.

“You should get a new pair.” Aldo points out and it almost sounds like the Aldo before.

“No,” Thomas shakes his head and knows he’s being irrational. He’s still, oddly, angry.

“Why not?” Aldo blinks, once, twice. His own glasses glean and magnify his eyes.

Thomas picks up his pen.

“Can you stop bothering me? You sound like…” Thomas starts to raise his voice, but then stops himself. No – bad idea to mention Vincent here, when Aldo stands above him, in all of his Secretary of State magnificence.

“Like whom?” Aldo catches on.

Thomas sighs. “The Holy Father, okay? He’s been telling me over and over. I’ll find the bloody glasses, fine? They’ve got to be somewhere.”

“Thank you for the scribbles,” Aldo reaches for the documents, voice saturated with chagrin. He nearly knocks over Thomas’ cup of coffee and leaves.

Thomas buries his face in his hands. When has his life become a rollercoaster? Going up and down, not on Thomas’s behest, but on the direction of some unknown power? Is there an emergency brake? I’d like to get off, please.

Chapter Text

Sunday finally comes and Thomas climbs out of bed to go to mass. He spent the night rolling around, passing into and out of consciousness, and now doesn’t feel more rested than when he had laid down. He shaves, dresses and promptly steps outside – freezing cold air hits him in the face.

Oh. It’s far, far colder than he thought it’d be… genuinely, far colder. A lone puddle sits frozen in the middle of the pavement.

He should’ve taken his scarf and gloves. Instead he rushes down the street and tries to keep warm, hands pushed deep inside the pockets of his coat. The early Sunday morning is oddly busy – he can hear honking from past the Vatican’s walls, distant and disconnected. Christmas is near and the usual rush has picked up pace: he doesn’t really feel like Christmas is so close, though.

As he crosses the street, sky still dark, powerful wind barges into him, and it feels like knives; the air finds every crevice and cranny in his coat; it slips through and chills his skin. His fingers are immobilized by the cold. He nearly drops his keycard as he tries to unlock the door to the Apostolic palace.

He passes through the corridors, nearly sprints across the nearly empty St Peter’s square and then manages to reach the Casa Santa Marta with a sigh of relief. The air is frigid.

A lot of the cardinals that attended the conclave are in Rome and so Thomas expects high turnout for both the mass and the breakfast after. He’s right, of course; on the ground floor of the Casa Santa Marta, there’s a group of cardinals already waiting, chatting, black and red in their cassocks. Thomas greets them all in passing, but warmly. Horace just opened the door to the chapel and Thomas soon finds himself surrounded in the cork of bodies that forms in the entryway.

“Buongiorno, Tommaso,” Goffredo shows up out of nowhere, floating in a haze of smoke like he often does, almost too close for comfort.

“Morning,” Thomas greets him jovially, deciding not to let the patriarch ruin his day.

“I hear you’re busy.” Tedesco continues casually.

“Well, that was to be expected.” Thomas murmurs.

They push inside the chapel through the door, Horace nods at Thomas from beside it.

Tedesco takes air in his smoke-lined lungs to speak, but Thomas stops him: “Dopo la Messa, Goffredo, dopo la Messa.”

Tedesco nods curtly and heads to sit in the second pew on the right. Thomas sits further in the back on the left. The Sisters of Charity and cardinals all settle down; there hasn’t been such a high turnout to Sunday mass at the chapel for weeks.

Vincent enters, shadowed by monsignor Nowak. The assembled rise and start mumbling their antiphon. The Holy Father sinks to his knees at the altar and presses his lips to the cool stone.

Thomas bows his head. Vincent should really get his hair cut, if he doesn’t want the news-cycle to start again, this time about how long the Holy Father’s hair is. The dark mass falls down the back of his neck in one smooth layer, the choppy ends flipping upward. Thomas can see him at an angle: the soft line of his jaw, the depth of his eyes, the shine of his pectoral cross. The white of Vincent’s cassock contrasts with his deep skin and Thomas has to look away as to not stare.

“Amen,” Thomas utters as Vincent finishes the sign of the cross.

The mass flows by – not sloppily, no, but swiftly. Afterall, Vincent will serve another mass today, and Christmas is so soon…

Thomas bows his head deeply and prays that it all goes well.

Vincent’s voice is soothing, the bodies in the pews around him radiate heat. When everyone starts lining up for the communion, he’s afraid he dozed off – he glances around to see if anyone’s noticed, but he isn’t sure if he even fell asleep and it looks like no one paid him any attention.

Either way, it doesn’t matter now.

With mass finished, celebrated, all of them blessed, Tedesco jumps up and turns to look for Thomas, who’d have liked to wait for Vincent to disrobe, but he wants to avoid Tedesco for a while longer and therefore he flees to the washroom.

When he finally joins Vincent at the breakfast table, plate piled high of scrambled egg, Vincent casts a concerned look his way.

“Are you feeling well?” He whispers in lieu of greeting.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” Thomas frowns softly, baffled.

“You ran off to the toilets so fast…” Vincent discreetly covers his mouth with his hand.

“Oh, that. Yes, Goffredo is trying to catch me for a chat, I wanted to avoid him for a while longer.” Thomas laughs gently and sinks down to his seat.

“How did you sleep?” Vincent digs into his own breakfast.

Thomas just silently waves his hand to dismiss the question and sips his tea.

“Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

“I am seeing my oncologist in January,” Thomas replies. “And if I remember correctly, old people don’t sleep much often. And we are old, unless you disagree?”

Vincent shrugs. “Bien.”

“I promise I’ll sleep after Christmas, okay?” Thomas leans back in his chair.

“Sure,” Vincent smiles softly and Thomas knows he doesn’t really believe him.

They finish their meals in companionable silence. The dining hall is full of clamour, plates and cups clinking, of cardinals chatting. There’s no need to add two more voices to the noise, especially as they speak so often – silence between two friends can also be lovely. Vincent is the first one to get up – Thomas gets up soon after, to take his dirty dishes away. He’d wanted to go accompany Vincent as he dresses in his vestments for the last pre-Christmas Sunday Mass in St Peter’s square, but alas – Tedesco has jumped up as well and Vincent jerks his head towards the patriarch in a “go talk to him!” manner.

Fine. Let’s get it over with.

Thomas nods at Goffredo across the room. The Venetian nods back and steps into the entrance hall. Thomas lingers a few moments longer, waiting as Vincent carefully sorts out his used cutlery.

“I’ll see you in the square, then.” Thomas tells Vincent as he heads after Tedesco.

“Yes,” Vincent smiles.

The entrance hall is empty. Where has he gone? Thomas isn’t in the mood for any of this.

After a few minutes of searching, he finds Goffredo standing outside in the courtyard by a bin, smoking like a chimney. The air is bitter and yet Goffredo looks unbothered by the cold, only in his cassock. The whiffs of smoke that reach Thomas smell vaguely of vanilla. He looks… troubled. That is a rare thing: Tedesco’s ego and cockiness are usually as present as the sun is in the sky.

“Goffredo? Stai bene?” Thomas asks. The patriarch may not be his favourite – he may not be anyone’s – but alas, he’s Thomas’ acquaintance and coworker and it isn’t like Thomas to wish someone harm.

“I wanted to ask about the sicurezza during the festivities.” Tedesco blows a cloud of smoke out of his lungs.

“I am not the person to ask I think…” Thomas starts, but Goffredo interrupts: “There is chatter online, Tommaso!”

“We’re taking all the measures we can.” He doesn’t mention that Vincent had inadvertently decided against the popemobile. “And anyway, is the only reason you’ve been hounding me to ask about His Holiness’ safety?”

“Non è l'unico motivo,” Tedesco admits, “I was wondering if your oncologist takes on new patients.”

Thomas can go weeks without mentioning Doctor Salvi. Twice in one day? He should take the good doctor out for dinner if this trend continues.

“I’ll call him, of course. May I ask who this appointment would be for?” Thomas’ voice softens and he slowly prepares himself to give a lecture about smoking and cancer.

“Mia sorella maggiore,” Tedesco mutters and takes a puff off his battery acid vape. Thomas sometimes marvels at how graciously the old cardinal smokes – he’s had decades of practise, sure, but it’s still remarkable.

“I’ll send you the contact straight away. And I’ll email my doctor to inform him she’ll be calling.” Thomas nods warmly. Doctor Salvi only squeezed his case into his file cabinet because of the late Holy Father’s influence. Perhaps Thomas can pass that favour on now.

“I knew you’re a good man, Tommaso. Aldo said so.” Tedesco peels himself away from the bin and heads inside, tapping Thomas on the shoulder as he passes. Thomas is surprised – not only by Tedesco calling Aldo, well, Aldo – but also by the sincerity.

He checks his watch. He can make it to St Peter’s square on time, but then his phone rings. His sister’s name lights up the screen. Maybe Vincent will forgive him for arriving late…

“Yes?” He picks up, deciding he’s avoided her for long enough.

“Thomas? Oh, so you are alive!” Her voice comes across the line all muffled, but her sarcasm is unaffected.

"Has something happened?" Thomas asks flatly.

“No! Why do you think I’d only call you if something happened?” There’s shuffling in the background.

“Well, Sundays might not be busy for retired accountants, but they are for priests, so…” Thomas sets off towards the square.

“Can’t I just call my little brother?” She wants to know.

“We’re both nearly seventy and I am not little.” Thomas replies.

“Oh, don’t be so glum! How is everything going with the pope? We’ve barely spoken.” She’s still the same, even decades later – animated and full of feeling and loud.

“If you want gossip to tell down at the chippy, I won’t help you.” Thomas sighs into his phone and holds back a hiss as he steps back into the freezing cold.

“I wouldn’t dare!” She yelps out.

“I know you,” Thomas grins. Oh, how he knows her.

“I just saw that they’re forecasting very cold weather to arrive in Rome. Some cold front changed direction, and they didn’t expect it! It’s climate change, Thomas!” She sing-songs in his ear.

“Yes. I know.” Thomas nods. He didn’t know – which is illustrated by him not wearing his scarf and freezing – but she doesn’t need to know that.

“You’re not celebrating mass today, are you?” She remembers.

“No, I’m not.” Thomas replies. “The pope is.”

“Oh, I won’t bother you then.” He can hear her nod her head, like she used to do when she finished doing someone’s taxes.

“You’re not bothering.” Thomas automatically tells her.

“Don’t lie to me!” She laughs.

“Tell Olivia and the boys I said hello, please.” Thomas says, voice serious.

“I will.” She pauses. “You tell the pope we’re all supportive here! That LGBT thing, you know.”

Thomas almost chokes. “…Sure. Goodbye!”

“I’ll call on Christmas!” She manages to say before he ends the call. Oh, what a duo she and Vincent would make… a perfect couple to boss him around. He sighs inwardly and battles on through the cold.

St Peter’s square is packed; nearly all the sections are full. The crowd is dense; it’s tourists and pilgrims and just people who grow a bit more devout in the advent season. And why not go and attend the pope’s outdoor mass?

Thomas pushes on through the crowd, which parts a little when people notice the crimson piping of his cassock and his red zucchetto. He stops at the front of it. He bows to the altar and focuses on Vincent, who’s already begun the mass.

Someone’s remembered to layer; Vincent looks rounder than usual. He’s mic-ed up and his gentle voice carries above the heads of the gathered few thousand people, speaking in multiple languages, as he often does. Thomas is also glad to see Horace and Enzo are there: they stand, eagle-eyed and ready to leap at any moment, like tigers.

A dozen or so more Swiss Guards, dressed in their voluminous yellow and blue uniforms, stand close by. Thomas can see Aldo, lingering at the edge of the crowd by one of the arms of the Mother Church – he’s so far away, standing by a pillar of the colonnade, Thomas can make out his bald head and little else. He’s sure there are few other cardinals around. Monsignors Nowak and Mueller are at the altar with Vincent, seconding.

The air is truly very cold. It’s almost painful; it bites Thomas’ cheeks. The sky above is clear and blue, a pale blue, only seen in winter and even if the sun shines on their heads, climbing up, it brings little warmth.

Vincent pauses, his voice no longer fills the square. He scans the crowd, and starts his homily: “Friends, we have gathered here in a time of great anticipation. We will soon celebrate the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. John writes that God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. Let us share in this message, on the darkest days of the year, let us all find God and trust in him that he will be there for us, for all of us – Proverbs 10:12 tells us that hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs.”

Vincent’s words echo in the silence that fell in the square. A silence of attention – a silence of respect.

“We must be vigilant; we must protect one another, stand for what is right, preach love. Our Father is patient, he loves us; we will soon celebrate the gift of Jesus He had bestowed upon us. Jesus who guides us to the promised land. Our Father is love and our peace. Amen.”

Vincent isn’t one for long homilies, but Thomas marvels at how he can pack such a strong message into the brief messages.

Mass is finished soon after; Vincent dismisses the faithful and takes off his microphone, handing it to Nowak – few members of the crowd begin to leave. It’s now Vincent’s time to wander around for a while, and the crowd knows it – they’ve gotten used to it after those few weeks. The Holy Father wanders among them, treating them like equals.

Thomas starts making his way closer to Vincent through the crowd, kept at bay by aluminium railings: Horace walks a few steps ahead of the pope, Enzo a few steps behind. Both of the Guards wear their black suits and look intimidating. Vincent’s sunny smile in the middle seems to not affect them.

“Eminence! Eminence!”

Thomas turns at the sound of a familiar voice. Leaning over the metal railing, reaching out to him, are a few faces he immediately recognises. They’re the university students he’d trekked around in the snow with.

“Hello!” Isabella, the evolutionary biologist yells, her hair covered by a pink hat, neck wrapped in a striped scarf.

Thomas glances at Vincent; he’s stopped now, too, and is chatting to an older gentleman. It looks like it’ll take a while. He steps closer to the young group.

“Where is your scarf?” The mathematician Thomas also remembers asks.

“I forgot to check the weather forecast.” Thomas laughs warmly.

“We just wanted to ask if you could deliver a message to His Holiness.” Isabella pushes the mathematician away, hand to face.

“I still have that phone number! I haven’t asked if he wanted a tour of the university yet!” Thomas remembers.

She smiles at him brightly. “All in due time,” she says, “just let him know we’re all happy with his reforms. It doesn’t matter what some fascists say!”

Thomas nods. “I will.”

“Good!” The mathematician yells.

“I’ll call,” Thomas tells the biologist and waves at them awkwardly to say goodbye. They happily wave back.

He turns and sets off after Vincent again; he’s moved about five meters down the crowd and someone’s showing him their phone screen. Vincent nods happily, laughs. The white zucchetto on his head shakes with the movement. Thomas feels a surge of warmth in his chest – over just watching him laugh, breathe, chat to strangers. He’s a shepherd and a good one at that.

Thomas Lawrence, the Dean of the College of Cardinals, always was a fast runner – it has something to do with his long limbs, probably, with his thinness and maybe just the sheer horror that rises in his stomach as he bolts towards Vincent.

Three gunshots ring out in the square; the silver revolver Thomas had glanced clangs against the cobbles as Enzo rugby-tackles the attacker to the ground. Horace is soon on the pile of young, strong bodies, too.

There’s shouting and there’re screams, but nobody knows what really happened, few people stood close enough to have seen it and even fewer understand what just took place under a clear sky on the shortest day of the year.

Thomas catches Vincent just as he stumbles backward to fall. His dead weight is too much – Thomas sinks down to his knees under it, falls down to the frozen-through cobbles.

“No, no, no,” he repeats, voice oddly flat. “Vincent. Vincent? Vincent?!” It takes on a desperation, his little mantra, his prayer. “No, no, no!”

The world around Thomas fades away. There’s just Vincent and his unmoving chest.

He isn’t breathing. Vincent isn’t breathing!

Thomas shuffles him closer, so that he has the pope in his lap, so that the pope doesn’t lie on the freezing cold cobble stones – the front of Vincent’s cassock is near-pristine.

Before Thomas can really think about it, two black SUVs are screeching to a halt, shielding them from the eyes of the crowd. How he ends up in the backseat of one, he doesn’t remember. He’s just on the leather seat, still holding Vincent, as the driver breaks all of the speed laws, leaving the Vatican behind.

Ora pro nobis. Thomas thinks. There’s no blood, occurs to him right after.

Chapter Text

Vincent wheezes. The sound is stark even in the noisy backseat of a car which passes through the Vatican gates just now, enters Rome and its busy traffic.

“Stay with me,” Thomas regains enough of his brain function. He still holds Vincent in his arms, the shorter man’s body half rests on top of him as they half sit half lay on the backseat. “Vincent? Do you hear me?” Thomas finally inspects Vincent, checks his chest, neck, even runs his hand through his hair. “Where were you hit?”

“I wasn’t.” Vincent wheezes.

Thomas stares at him, not understanding a thing.

Houses and shops pass outside the window way too swiftly. Other cars honk at them. The driver, a Swiss Guard who’s face Thomas recalls but not his name, appears calm, but a vein on his neck pulses rapidly.

Thomas pokes Vincent in the stomach. He inspects the layers of fabric carefully between his fingers, pulling at it; white cassock, a blend of fibres, surely, thicker wool, one of his sweaters, and finally something that feels like hard plastic… “Oh my God! Are you wearing a bullet proof vest?!”

“Sí,” Vincent admits simply.

Thomas leans his forehead on a white-clothed shoulder for a moment. “Oh my God,” he repeats, voice a whisper. “Why? Where did you even get it?!” He doesn’t remember one in the box from Kabul.

“Enzo gave me his vest. Said I wouldn’t get cold.” Vincent admits. “I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted.”

Thomas stares at him in shock, mind entirely clear of thought.

“Give me your radio,” he commands the driver finally.

The man hands it over silently, glancing at Thomas in the rear-view mirror.

“What channel is the Commandante on?”

“One,” the driver replies at once.

Thomas presses one and then the button which, ironically, Enzo had shown him how to do. “Commandante? This is cardinal Lawrence. I am with the Holy Father, he’s… unhurt. You need to interrogate Enzo.”

“Che cosa?!” The reply is half-hidden by radio static.

“Enzo gave the Holy Father his vest. He could’ve known about the attack and was attempting to prevent it. Changed his mind, perhaps. You need to question him. Am I clear?” Thomas adds.

Vincent stares at him, eyes wide. The driver stares at him too, through the rear-view mirror.

“Just do it!” Thomas barks out and hands the radio back to the driver.

“I don’t think he’s had anything to do with this,” Vincent says.

“Oh, don’t be naïve,” Thomas barks out. Adrenaline courses through his veins – it pounds about his body, and he feels like he could do basically anything… run a marathon. Win at Waterloo. Hold Atlas’s burden.

“I am not. But I can hope!” Vincent protests.

Now, Vincent once again proves how good a person is – how much better than Thomas he is.
Thomas disentangles himself from the Holy Father a bit – they sit properly, instead of Thomas having Vincent nearly lay on him.

“Sorry. Of course you’re not naïve. How did he talk you into taking the vest?” Thomas sighs and massages the root of his nose.

“He was absolutely insistent. Said they are the stuffiest, that they are not breathable, that they don’t let wind through. He said I’d be warm. I don’t know… I just let him talk me into it.” Vincent explains. His voice is a little strained.

"Are you alright?" Thomas asks, alarmed. The driver speeds up, clearly intently listening.

“They knocked the air out of me, the impacts. I think I got three direct hits… I never got shot before.” Vincent presses his chin down to his chest in an attempt to look, poking himself in the ribs with his fingers. He sounds incredibly calm and intrigued as he inspects the charred holes in the fabric he wears.

“Thank God it happened while you had a vest on…” Thomas pauses and looks outside. They’re nearly at the hospital. Had he retired…

Vincent grins at him. “I always wanted to know what it was like!”

Thomas exchanges a look of horror with the driver. It feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.

“Did you hit your head?!” He blurts out as the driver speeds up even faster.

❅❅❅

They wait in the pope’s private room at the Gemelli University Hospital. It’s windowless and it makes Thomas feels just a touch nervous, the white walls, the low ceiling by Vatican standards. There’s noise in the hallway – half a dozen Swiss guards have arrived and are now being loud, sent to guard Vincent, the pope.

Thomas stands, holding a pile of clothes: Vincent’s white cassock, the woollen sweater, his shirt. It’s an armful of Vincent – it smells like him, too. Thomas doesn’t want to let go; he needs something to squeeze. If he squeezed Vincent, he would hurt him – the sweet-smelling pile is the next best thing.

Vincent himself sits on the bed, wearing the skier’s thermal long-sleeve Thomas had bought him weeks ago, feet dangling above the floor, shoulders hunched. It had been a bit of a struggle to unwrap him out of the layers – Thomas has a suspicion his ribs may be cracked.

They draped the ballistic vest on a chair. It sits in an empty space in the large private room, like a relic of sorts. This piece of Kevlar saved Vincent’s life…

Thomas feels like it’s all a dream.

They wait in silence. There isn’t much to be said, not until a doctor gets here. A little bubble of silence is theirs for the time being – whatever is happening on the outside doesn’t concern them. It’s unusually silent for a hospital room: and Thomas has spent enough time in hospital rooms. It’s actually not half horrible, waiting here.

Finally, the bubble bursts.

A woman barges in through the door. Her dark hair is pulled back in a French braid, loose strands fly around her head wildly; her white lab coat is inside out, over a pair of blue jeans and a black turtleneck; she’s sweaty and out of breath, all flushed and pink cheeked. She pulls a medical cart with her.

“I was told the pope was shot?!” She asks in alarm, stops dead in her tracks.

Neither Vincent nor Thomas says anything, as she ponders the scene in the room. Her eyebrows rise up toward her hairline.

“Were… were you waring that, Your Holiness?” She finally asks and points at the vest, speaking to Vincent.

“Yes,” Vincent nods simply.

“Oh,” she laughs, and it sounds a tiny bit hysterical. “Oh, that’s… that’s good. Explains why everyone else was so calm...” She walks over to Vincent. “I am Doctor Ludovica Cignani.” She says and shakes Vincent’s hand. “I used to be a military surgeon. Dug bullets out of a few hundred people.”

Cignani moves with a resolution of sorts. She’s calmed down now significantly. Thomas notices her frame is very muscular, her hands are rough and yet gentle. She must be in her mid-forties.

She wanders over to the vest, inspects it. “Do either of you know what the gun was?” She asks, looking up, glancing from Thomas to Vincent and back.

“A revolver, I think.” Thomas clears his throat. “A small one.” He goes to set the pile of fabric down on another chair.

“Hm,” she nods, “Yes, I’d think so. This is low-profile soft armour. Had it been something larger than a handheld, it would’ve passed clean through. I suppose you didn’t have a plate behind it?”

“No,” Vincent shakes his head.

She nods, contemplative. “Let’s get you out of the shirt, then. I don’t think it’ll be pretty.”

Thomas helps her get Vincent out of the thermal. They pull Vincent’s left arm out of the sleeve, pull the fabric off his torso and over his head and then peel the other sleeve off, in the very same way Thomas got Vincent out of the sweater. Thomas almost averts his gaze from Vincent’s bare chest and stomach – but there are three ugly bruises coming in and they catch his eye.

One is near Vincent’s right shoulder – the bullet would’ve gone through the axillary artery. Not necessarily deadly. The other is right over where Thomas thinks the stomach is. Also not necessarily deadly. The last bruise is sprawled in the centre of Vincent’s chest, ugly, dark and nearly black – right over the heart.

Thomas stares at it. Under Vincent’s soft deep skin, there are punctured blood vessels. There’s pooled blood, coagulating. There’s his heart, under skin and bone, beating, pumping blood. Alive. Vincent’s alive.

“I always thought you looked a little disproportional on TV.” Cignani says chattily as she inspects the bruises and waves her left hand to where Thomas had set down the clothes.

“Oh, why?” Vincent asks, tone interested.

“You looked very top-heavy, which I found odd. Now I know you were keeping warm… and safe. Does this hurt?” She pokes Vincent in the ribs.

“A bit,” Vincent wheezes.

“Now, stand up for me,” she mutters. “Breathe in.”

She takes her stethoscope and starts listening to Vincent’s chest. “Hm,” she mutters. “I do think your ribs are broken. But your lungs haven’t been pierced, which is good. And you have a heart like a bell.” She stands back, incredibly casual for what the situation is. “Those scars have healed well. How old are they?”

“Nearly ten years.” Vincent replies. “It was shrapnel from a car bomb.”

Ludovica Cignani nods. “Whoever sewed you up did a good job.”

Thomas glances at Vincent’s stomach: he’s read about those scars. They shine lighter that the rest of his skin, reminders in the soft flesh of Vincent’s stomach. A cluster of them covers most of his belly, jagged, ugly. A neat, long scar with visible stitches sits near his right hip, right where they took out his appendix.

Thomas looks away, overwhelmed, hoping his face doesn’t flush.

“We’ll have to give you an X-ray,” the doctor adds. “See just how broken your ribs are.”

Vincent nods and smiles. “Of course.”

The doctor turns to Thomas, looks him up and down. “Did anyone else get hurt?” She asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” Thomas replies.

“Well, then that blood has to be yours, eminence.” Cignani says.

Thomas looks down. What blood? Ah, yes – that blood. The red piping along the hem of his cassock is darker, caked in some dark brown thing. Dried blood. He leans down and inspects the front of his cassock. The fabric is hard and flaky, right about where his knees are.

He’s surprised she noticed.

“I must’ve broken my knees…” He mutters. “I’ll take care of it later.”

“No. I am already here! Take your trousers off. I am not here for decoration; they called me in on my day off. I am treating someone, and it will be you! Even if it’s just a cracked knee or two.” Doctor Cignani sounds like she will not take a no for an answer. Thomas decides not to argue when he sees Vincent’s face.

He ends up sitting next to Vincent on the bed in his clerical shirt, socks and underwear. His feet do reach the floor as the doctor leans down and inspects just how he cracked his knees. She works gently, wiping away dried blood from his shins.

Thomas looks over at Vincent to find he’s grinning wildly, dangling his feet back and forth. Thomas frowns at him.

“That’s not pretty, it’s a lot of blood for something like this,” the doctor mutters, letting air out through her teeth. “Where did this happen?”

“He caught me.” Vincent softly says, dropping his grin. “Must’ve happened then.”

The doctor nods to herself. “Well, I don’t think either of you are facing imminent death.” She disinfects Thomas’ knees and tapes them over. “When they scab it might be a little hard to sit, bend your knees, that kind of thing.”

Thomas hums absentmindedly. His body finally caught up and he feels subtle pulsing pain in both his knees – when he crushed down to the cobbles with Vincent in his arms, that’s when it happened. He doesn’t remember.

Cignani helps Vincent back into the sweater – even if it has the bullet holes, it’s the loosest piece of clothing. She then wheels in an armchair, insists Vincent sit in it and wheels him away for that X-ray. Thomas stays behind. He pulls his trousers back on slowly, feeling old and tired.

Vincent could’ve been dead, he thinks. Right there. In front of the basilica. In my arms, he would’ve bled out. Thomas shuffles around for his phone. There are several missed calls – five from Ray, three from Aldo, two from sister Agnes, one from Sabbadin, Adeyemi and Tremblay each. He dials Ray; the Irishman picks up after two rings.

“Ray?”

“Eminence?!”

“Please let the Curia know the Holy Father is safe and not in any danger whatsoever. Have you evacuated the square?" Thomas skips the pleasantries.

“Yes. The Swiss Guard has called in help from the Carabinieri. The attacker was apprehended. Should I tell cardinal Bellini to release a statement?” Ray might be a generally nervous man; but he always knows what to do. It sounds like there’s a lot of things happening on his side; he can hear muffled voices and clinking, some odd beeps and Ray’s heavy breathing.

“Yes. Release only that the Holy Father’s alive. No other information. We need to talk properly before we let the world know more. We need information.” Thomas sighs. “Has anyone else been hurt?”

“A few twisted ankles as people ran away.” Ray informs him. A loud thud follows.

“Good,” Thomas nods. “Start making changes to move the Midnight mass inside.”

“Is… that wise? To hold it at all?” Ray’s voice is weak.

“He’ll want to hold it. I won’t let him hold it outside, Ray. Just do as I say. Tell sister Agnes, I am sure she’ll get right on it.” Thomas wipes his hand across his face.

“Oh, I found your glasses!” Ray squeals.

“You did? Where were they?” Thomas perks up a bit.

“On the ground by the wastebin in the office. You must’ve knocked them off your desk.” Ray explains.

“Keep them safe. Do not lose them again! I’ve got to go.” Thomas mutters as Cignani wheels Vincent back into the room.

Thomas turns his eyes to Vincent. They stare at each other for a while.

“So, I do not see any reason why you couldn’t go back to the Vatican. Your ribs are broken, but there is nothing I can do about that… It’s a waiting game. I’ll give you calcium and vitamin D supplements and an analgetic cream to put on the bruises for pain. I suggest you take it all slow… breathe normal, but take it slowly up the stairs, try to not laugh.” Cignani says as she inspects the X-rays on a computer screen in the corner of the room, her voice even and composed. She taps away at a keyboard that's on a little pull-out drawer.

“Not laugh?” Vincent turns to her, breaking eye-contact with Thomas.

“It will hurt. You have… three broken ribs and a few hairline cracks. I also suggest ice. Maybe you could come back in for an MRI…”

“Not necessary.” Vincent blurts out.

“We’ll call in a doctor to stay at the Vatican,” Thomas steps in. “We have an agreement with a few; we’ve just been busy and haven’t had time to deal with these things.” It’s true – there just wasn’t time.

“If you have swelling or trouble breathing or new bruises… immediately come back here. I’ll have you come back in a week; we’ll check those ribs again.” Cignani says. “Here. This is the medical report.” The pope’s room apparently has a printer, hidden in a cupboard next to the computer screen, because it spits out some papers. She takes the few pages and gives them to Vincent. “And that’s it. Eminence, you should keep those knees clean. Don’t want an infection!”

Thomas nods. He steps outside the room to inform the Guards they’re nearly ready to go.

They leave the hospital riding in the backseat of a different SUV, each of them actually wearing their seatbelts, accompanied by a driver and a second Guard, with a semi-automatic rifle. The pile of clothes rides in the middle seat with a metal tube of medicine and a plastic bottle of supplements.

Thomas bows his head and prays. He thanks God for keeping Vincent alive.

Show me, Lord, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is.

Chapter Text

The heavy oak door shuts behind them and the sound echoes in the corridor outside; Horace and Marco stand on each side of the door, armed with semi-automatic rifles, as if the Vatican was under siege.

The papal apartment is silent and welcoming. It’s a sanctuary.

It’s remarkable, how Thomas feels he’s arrived home. The air is saturated with the smell of Vincent, all clean soap and sandalwood. It’s warm inside, too. He hangs up his coat as Vincent carries his pile into the bedroom.

He goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on. As it boils, he stands in the doorway to Vincent’s bedroom. He doesn’t enter – he lingers on the doorstep; shoulder pressed into the doorframe to keep steady.

“We should call an emergency meeting,” Vincent turns to him energetically. He holds a clean shirt, as if he’s ready to dress for more work.

“No,” Thomas shakes his head.

“How no?” Vincent asks, clearly confused.

“No. You’re not going anywhere else today.” Thomas steps into the room. “This,” he grabs the ballistic vest from the pile, “is the only thing that stood between you and certain death. I don’t know if you don’t…”

“I’ve survived worse, Thomas! And I need to work. I-” Vincent interrupts, only to be cut off: “Your Secretary of State can handle this! They all can! Do you not trust them? And what can you do?! It isn’t like you can patrol the Vatican yourself!” Thomas pauses and then adds resolutely: “And we are moving Midnight mass inside.”

This could probably count as the first actual disagreement he’s had with Vincent. The Mexican stares at him. The shirt in his hands slowly falls down to the floor.

“You can’t go outside before we’re sure it’s safe.” Thomas whispers. “Why don’t you rest? Your ribs are broken, Vincent!” The kettle’s boiling, Thomas can hear the water bubble.

“I – I feel useless, Tómas.” Vincent’s voice fails.

“You’re not! You’ve just survived an assassination attempt!” Thomas protests loudly and his heart breaks a little.

“What am I if I can’t be a shepherd? What am I if I am not there for the flock?” Vincent pushes past Thomas, marches off to the kitchen, still wearing the sweater with holes in it.

Thomas tosses the ballistic vest on the floor and follows. He raises his voice: “You’re Vincent Benítez! The pope, Innocentius, who got shot at! And you can’t be there for the flock if you are, well, dead. What would have Nadira told you? Don’t tell me she let you come back to work after you got a stomach full of metal!”

The ochre kitchen welcomes them and is soon filled with the smell of lemons as Vincent presses the juice out of one angrily, turned away from Thomas.

“Don’t bring Nadira into this! We’re not moving the mass inside.” Vincent says, voice low – almost threating.

“We are.” Thomas holds his own – oh, he can hold his own, against Goffredo, against Aldo, against Vincent, too. He’s not backing down, because if he let’s Vincent into harm’s way again, he’ll never forgive himself. They were lucky – God intervened today. Thomas doubts it’ll happen again.

“We’re not! Not enough people fit in…” Vincent turns to face him; his cheeks are flushed, eyes glimmering.

“If I have to drag you inside the church myself, I will.” Thomas promises, pronouncing all his words properly, stressing each syllable.

Vincent stares at him. There’s something in those big brown eyes, something that tells Thomas he’ll crack soon. Because he has to – Thomas will not let him hold mass outside again for at least… a month. No. A year – or ever.

“Please, Vincent,” Thomas steps closer. He lays his hand gently on Vincent’s chest, right over his heart, over where that bullet had hit. Gently, oh so gently, lightly like a butterfly sits on a flower petal, his palm rests over a beating heart. “Please. I need you to stay safe. I… I don’t know what I would have done if you died out there today.” He whispers.

Vincent’s eyes slowly fill with tears.

“I would’ve gone mad. I… don’t know what I would have done without you. Honestly. I would’ve… and forgive me, but I think I would’ve done something stupid.” Thomas laughs softly. It borders on the edge of hysteria. And he knows this might not be the best tactic in the book – but he just needs Vincent to agree. He needs to keep him safe.

“Fine. We will move the mass inside.” Vincent clears his throat, voice raspy.

Neither of them moves. They stand in the kitchen close together, an empty half of a lemon lies on the counter; Thomas’s hand is to Vincent’s heart, and they share the same air.

“I am sorry I scared you.” Vincent apologizes.

“That you did. Terribly,” Thomas nods. A million things flood his mind: all the little moments with Vincent. Vincent, asleep in sister Agatha’s old office, Vincent by the turtle pond, Vincent covered in dust in his ill-fitting cardinal’s cassock; the first time they spent time in this apartment, Vincent still unsure whether he really wanted to stay here, sipping on tea; Thomas gently slipping the Fisherman’s ring onto Vincent’s skeletal finger, his bright smile shining above as Thomas bent down slightly; Vincent smiling, more and more, on all the little occasions.

He remembers that all of these memories could’ve been bitter, had today gone different – had that cold front not moved over Italy, Vincent could’ve been dead.

They stand in the kitchen: neither moves, as if afraid to. In the end, Thomas just decides he doesn’t care anymore. The desire is too strong, accented by the utter fear, by the stress of the morning, by Vincent nearly falling into the abyss.

He lifts his hand off of Vincent’s chest and caresses his cheek, softly, gently. He slides his fingers across and into the hair behind Vincent’s ear: it’s soft and long, silky smooth. He tenderly pulls him closer to press his lips against Vincent’s, to finally get a taste.

A few moments are filled with stillness – Thomas’ heart races in his chest, though. Then Vincent delicately moves closer and kisses him back, pressing his warm, soft lips firmly to Thomas’, pushing their bodies together, stomach against stomach, chest against chest.

It’s a release: it’s a release of all that Thomas has been feeling. He kisses Vincent with the care of a sculptor carving the finest marble, gently sucks on his lip and feels right. Vincent wraps his hands around Thomas’s waist and leans his forehead against his chest, ending the kiss.

“I think I am in love with you,” Thomas whispers in his hair.

Vincent laughs joyfully – and wheezes in pain right away. “Ouch.”

“Where did you leave that thing the doctor gave you?” Thomas frees himself of Vincent’s arms.

He helps Vincent get out of the sweater again. The bruises have finished growing dark; they’re nearly black and very nasty – Thomas’ breath catches in his chest. Now that he can look at them properly, he can see veins, he can see the uneven texture, he can see the darkest spots where exactly the bullet hit.

“Do they hurt?” He asks and gently runs his fingertips across all of them, one by one.

“A little,” Vincent confesses.

Thomas squeezes the analgetic gel onto his fingers and is surprised to find it looks just like what he had used a couple of times when his knee had been acting up: it’s water-clear and smells vaguely like plastic. He gently, ever so gently, massages it into the bruise by Vincent’s shoulder, near the old, faded stab wound scar – the medicine cools his fingers and Vincent gasps, too. It must be icy against his bare chest.

He runs the fingers of his left hand over the scars on Vincent’s stomach, distracted from the bruises – the scars rise out of the skin, little reliefs, sculpted by a malicious hand. Vincent gasps, but Thomas needs to touch all of them: he explores the soft flesh gently.

“That tickles,” Vincent catches his left hand, holding back laughter, eyes full of warmth.

“Sorry,” Thomas mutters and returns to the bruises.

“Go grab me a shirt, would you?” Vincent runs his hand over the side of Thomas’ face when all three bruises have been tended to.

Thomas goes: one, he feels he needs a tiny respite, two, Vincent had asked him to, and Thomas would do anything for him. He picks out a t-shirt, a blue one, and grabs a clean sweater (no bullet holes). Vincent had finished making their teas; Thomas helps him get into the shirt and sweater again.

Home – they’re home and for a while, none of what’s outside has to bother them. Thomas just enjoys looking at Vincent, savouring his symmetrical face, the softness of his jawline, how his hair curls behind his ear. He’s beautiful.

Vincent reaches out and runs his hand across the side of Thomas’ face.

“I love you too, Thomas. I have never felt like this,” Vincent admits simply as he stands in front of Thomas, barefoot and as handsome as ever, eyes round and deep.

Under light emitted by a terribly white-toned lightbulb, in one of the ugliest kitchens Thomas had ever set foot in, in the Vatican, after having lived a pretty long life, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever been told.

He wraps Vincent in his arms again. “I’ll cook lunch. You go lie down.” He whispers.

Vincent leaves the room and Thomas starts inspecting what there is he could cook with, opening cupboards at random, but Vincent comes back, wrapped in a blanket and he sits on the counter, out of Thomas’ way.

“Cook away. I am staying right here, mi vida.” He announces candidly.

Thomas laughs and hands him his tea.

He chops onion and Vincent jokingly mocks him for tearing up; they kiss again, softly, Vincent presses his lips to Thomas’ forehead in apology for the onion teasing. Thomas starts boiling water for pasta. Vincent recounts the few weeks he lived solely off of boiled potatoes in Congo.

They go on like this, gently, as Vincent sips his tea – his lips taste of honey and lemon, Thomas learns.

Neither of them mentions the chaos that is surely raging past the heavy oak door, in the offices of the Vatican, in all the newsrooms, in all Catholic churches around the globe. Thomas cooks and Vincent sits on the counter, and they talk: of England and how Thomas used to row for a short while in university, of how football is a universal language in Vincent’s experience, how they’re both looking forward to the new year.

It is all familiar, it’s how it used to be before, but it feels somehow… more complete. Now that Thomas knows what the press of Vincent’s lips against his feels like.

“An Italian would probably stone me to death for this meal,” Thomas hands a bowl over to Vincent. “We used to call it What the house gave. You just put anything you want in it or have left over.”

Vincent digs in carefully, as if he entirely doesn’t trust Thomas’ cooking.

“It’s pretty good!” He looks up in surprise after having a taste.

“Did you not trust me?” Thomas laughs.

“No comment,” Vincent says sheepishly.

They eat in silence; silence with Vincent is somehow different. He’s happier than he’s been in years, Thomas realises. The silence is… good. Once finished, Thomas sets the bowls in the sink to be washed later and steps over to where Vincent is still sitting on the counter.

“Now will you lie down?” He brings Vincent’s hand up to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Only if you come with me. I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.” Vincent replies and smiles shyly.

They move to the bedroom: Thomas draws the curtains, sits down on the bed and helps Vincent climb up. Thomas’s thigh serves as a pillow – Vincent lies flat on his back. There won’t be no curling up for a while, not until his ribs heal.

It doesn’t take Vincent long to fall asleep; Thomas spends those moments before his eyes shut sorting through his hair, running the silky threads between his fingers; his thoughts are an odd mixture – there’s love, so much of it, but also the lingering fear – like ozone after it’s rained, it fills him up and he’s almost paralyzed by it.

A coinicidence, he thinks, is why he’s still here. Dead, he would’ve been dead. It’s ugly to think of a dead Vincent; how his skin would grow grey, how he’d slowly cease to exist – rotting under St Peter’s Basilica, in a cold damp crypt, turning into nothingness in a lead-lined coffin, accompanied only by the bodies of other long dead popes. Instead, he’s alive and his heart is beating gently in his chest, lips warm for Thomas to kiss – selfishly, Thomas hopes he’s the first to leave this life.

Once he’s sure Vincent won’t wake up, Thomas swaps his thigh for a pillow. He gets up and pulls on one of Vincent’s black sweaters that looks like it’s his. He pulls on his shoes, makes sure his phone is in his pocket, grabs the medical report from the hospital and quietly steps out into the corridor.

It’s nearly three in the afternoon.

“If he wakes up, don’t let him leave, Horace,” he instructs the Swiss Guard. Horace, never very chatty, only nods.

Thomas sets off down the corridor – he’s been unaware for long enough. He might have claimed they should let Aldo handle it, but Thomas, especially when it comes to Innocent XIV, wants to always make sure – well, if not always, then starting today always.

He finds the commotion where he expected to find it, in the offices of the Holy Father.

Chapter Text

Sister Agnes sits at Vincent’s desk, a little red thirteen-inch laptop sitting in front of her. Aldo sits in Thomas’s chair under the window tapping away at his laptop; Tedesco is sprawled in the chair next to him, scrolling on his phone, the sound turned all the way up – he scrolls so fast the sounds change mind-numbingly fast. Wilhelm is talking to someone on the phone in passable Japanese; Ray stands in a corner, also talking on the phone, switching between English and Italian in rapid succession. Thomas thinks he recognises Tremblay’s briefcase, forgotten and leaning against the conference table in the middle of the room. Sabbadin has found a fold-out table and chair somewhere and now sits, clicking away aggressively. What he’s clicking on, Thomas isn’t sure.

All eyes turn to him at once.

“Eminence,” sister Agnes is the first to speak. “I thought His Holiness wouldn’t mind me sitting here.”

“No,” Thomas clears his throat, “that he wouldn’t…” He pauses, takes the papers out of his pocket and opens them up. “The Holy Father has three broken ribs and a few hairline cracks, some ugly bruising. He is not in danger. As you probably all know by now, he was wearing a ballistic vest... I suggest we release that information but not let it slip it was purely coincidental. Let’s say we had reason to have him wear it. We’d look like fools if we said he wore it on the insistence of a personal guard and to keep warm of all reasons.”

“Yes,” Aldo nods. “I’ve had that drafted for an hour, now. We had Enzo questioned – he insists that he didn’t know anything about any plot, he admits he may have seen some talk online but truly wanted to keep the Holy Father warm.” It’s the most words he’s spoken to Thomas in days, and he even smiles at Thomas – warmly. He looks like he’s itching to speak to Thomas alone.

Sabbadin, the camerlengo, steps in: “The Guard is going through Enzo’s electronics. But we are inclined to believe him. You do know the suspect was caught?”

Thomas nods. He’d seen it happen.

“Well, apparently, he put out some sort of manifesto online. His name is Harvie Raymond, forty-three years old, from Tennessee, a dual citizen of the US and, ironically, Switzerland… I would’ve thought they’d…”

“Spare me the jokes, Giulio, would you?” Thomas sighs.

“Hm. Sure. Mr Raymond a very strong proponent of sedevacantism…”

“Good grief. That’s ridiculous!” Thomas exclaims. “Sedevacantists? I thought it would’ve been the racists or homophobes that would try to kill him!”

“Well, Harvie Raymond is a chauvinist, a racist and a homophobe, too, if that helps. But apparently, he’s been wanting to… um, I quote: off the antipope for years now. The Late Holy father could’ve been his target, but Raymond had a five-year expulsion sentence from Italy for setting off fireworks at a football game in Milan.” Sabbadin explains. “Luckily, nobody was hurt. Odd to see him respect that ruling.”

“He posted the manifesto on Twitter,” Tedesco adds, lifting up his phone. The Venetian sits with one leg over the other so that his foot almost casually touches Aldo’s calf.

“Then add to the statement that the suspect has been caught, please, Aldo.” Thomas nods.

“He did it with a Ruger SP101 revolver he purchased in Switzerland. The ammunition, he bought here in Italy. We contacted his wife – apparently, he just disappeared, they thought he was missing. His family thought the worst. Instead, he flew out to Europe using a fake passport.” Ray has ended his call and now joins in. “Here.” He adds and steps close to Thomas, handing over the reading glasses.

“Thank you,” Thomas nods warmly. “Have you started to move the midnight mass inside?” He turns to sister Agnes.

“Oui,” she nods. “I think it will end up being easier. Less to decorate. Has His Holiness agreed to this?”

For a moment, Thomas thinks all of them must know what he’s thinking of (the soft press of Vincent’s lips against his, of course). He forces a blush to stay away, and then says, feeling like a schoolboy: “Surprisingly, yes. I talked some sense into him.”

“Very good.” She nods.

“The news is of course, speculating wildly.” Tedesco starts. “There is a rumour it was a heart-broken ex-lover…”

Thomas breathes in his own saliva and goes into a coughing fit. Oh, Lord, give me strength.

“He’s just trying to annoy you,” Aldo steps in. “The media has actually been great about all of this. If you didn’t only read merda, you’d know that.” He turns to look at Goffredo who has just taken a puff off his vape. “They have, truly, been good so far,” he turns back to Thomas. “Hashtag best pope is trending.”

Thomas only vaguely understands what a hashtag is, but it sounds good.

“It… isn’t as much of a disaster as it looked like it would be. You nearly gave us all a heart attack, both of you – there were gunshots and then nobody could tell what was going on because of those bloody SUVs…” Aldo continues.

“Yes. If you were able to persuade him on moving the mass, maybe you could try to talk him into the popemobile?” Agnes asks.

“I don’t know.” Thomas shakes his head.

“We’ve been mostly overwhelmed by the foreign diplomats who are flying in. They’re all concerned with security.” Wilhelm informs Thomas.

He spends around an hour, answering more questions, sharing his opinion on what they should do next – it honestly feels a little draining. He’s the dean: not the camerlengo or God forbid the Secretary. He manages to excuse himself after Ray says the American president’s team has called seven times already. No, Thomas decides. Not dealing with the Americans.

He makes up an excuse and steps out of the offices. He should probably stop at his flat before going back to Vincent. In the darkening corridor, his steps echo. It’s still freezing outside, and Thomas silently wishes for more snow. At least the cold would be justified that way, instead this is just more suffering for everyone, especially the homeless.

As he turns a corner to head down the stairs, he realises there’s a set of steps following him: the gait is familiar.

Aldo speeds up when Thomas turns to wait for him.

“Thomas! Good Lord, Thomas.” Aldo sounds a little croaky, a little teary.

“Yes?” Thomas watches him approach and then stop, few steps to reach, few steps to touch.

“I am very glad you’re okay. Both of you I mean – but…” Aldo says.

“I understand, Aldo.” Thomas nods – and he does. He thinks he understands the relief Aldo feels for Thomas, because he feels it for Vincent. The draining emotions of this day, he’ll remember for ever.

“No, let me say this, Thomas. Don’t talk over me! I’ve had a few hours to think about what I want to say,” Aldo raises his hand, almost pats Thomas’s shoulder, but decides not to, withdraws his hand.

“I’m listening,” Thomas nods.

The corridor is cold but filled with light, the day still sunny; Thomas realises they’re standing not too far away from where they shouted at each other when it had started snowing that memorable day, which feels like it had been months ago, not just mere days.

“Alright, so,” Aldo wipes his palms in his cassock, “I am sorry I shouted at you. I said some unfair things and I have to admit I was… jealous and prideful. I felt alone and like a tossed away toy. For those feelings that were mine to deal with, I punished you.”

“I forgive you,” Thomas nods. He pauses, teetering on the edge with the urge to say what just occurred to him; he fights it for a moment, then fails. “And would I be correct in assuming you’ve… made a friend of Goffredo?”
Aldo blushes. And it’s not one of those blushes of surprise, of pink-cheeked hesitation; blood rushes to his face, his skin turns crimson, and he looks like he’d just bit into a lemon.

Thomas can’t help it and grins. “Good. That’s good.”

“Tu pettegolo! Questo è incredibile,” Aldo mutters. “I am not dealing with this. I’ll see you later.” He turns on his heel and starts making his way back up the corridor.

Thomas keeps smiling and sets off in the opposite direction. Well, Aldo seems like a new person, almost.

Once he makes it outside the walls of the Apostolic palace, he rushes through the biting cold; the sky is still perfectly blue and cloudless. All the warm air had gone upward, no clouds to hold it down. Had they been in the countryside, the conditions for skygazing would be perfect. He climbs up to his flat, changes into clean clothes, grabs his phone charger and toothbrush, a packet of biscuits and his tin of tea – Vincent is close to running out of the slightly lower-quality tea he’d acquired God-knows where. Thomas, while not a snob, has a taste for better tea.

Making his way back to the papal apartment is pleasant. He walks swiftly to escape the cold, to get back to Vincent. The apartment is silent, when he slips past Horace and through the heavy door. He puts the tea and biscuits in the cupboards in the kitchen, leaves his phone charger and toothbrush on the counter.

He enters the bedroom and feels like whenever he enters a church, he hasn’t set foot in before. The room is dim, warm; it’s a shrine. Vincent is exactly how he left him, flat on his back, eyes shut, breathing evenly. He’s beautiful. Angelic.

Thomas gently sits down on the edge of the bed.

“¿A dónde has ido?”

Vincent’s beautiful eyes are open. He looks upward at Thomas, neck bent. The curve of his brow is inquiring, lips slightly parted, eyes wide.

“I went to see how they’re dealing with it all,” Thomas whispers.

“You hypocrite,” Vincent sits up, smiles warmly.

“Sorry. I just really needed to know.” Thomas bows his head as weak shame floods in.

“Then tell me. How are they handling it?” Vincent scoots closer on the mattress. His hair is a little ruffled; there’s sleep in his eyes and as he wraps himself around Thomas, he’s warm – like a heater, his skin is hot to the touch, and he smells heavenly.

Thomas bends down his head and presses a kiss to one arm wrapped around him. “They are handling it very well. Sister Agatha has gotten started on moving the mass. Giulio and Ray are dealing with the perpetrator. He’s a dual citizen – Swiss and American. Uh, did it because he’s a sedevacantist.” Thomas starts explaining. “Apparently the biggest hassle are all the safety-concerned politicians.”

“Hm-hm.” Vincent hums. He presses his nose into Thomas’ neck right under his ear.

Thomas laughs. “What is this? Punishment? Not very harsh.”

“No. I’m just happy you came back.” Vincent whispers.

Thomas turns, pulls his legs up to the bed to better wrap Vincent in his arms. It’s easy to hold him, his small frame and lithe limbs fold perfectly into his armful. He buries his nose in Vincent’s hair and breathes in deeply.

Tomorrow, Vincent will get up and go serve mass, just like any other day – but this late afternoon and tonight, Vincent is Thomas’ to hold; he’s his to kiss and to sleep next to.

“I love you,” Thomas whispers.

Vincent turns his head, cranes his neck upward and kisses Thomas, kisses him like it’s the last time he ever could, like the world is ending tomorrow. And maybe it is ending – because Thomas feels full and satisfied and he would not mind at all if the second coming did come tomorrow.

Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong. Do everything in love. He thinks.

Chapter Text

Thomas surprises himself and makes it back to the Vatican before the First vespers of Christmas start. Yes, he ends up a little out of breath and sweaty, but as he sinks to his knees to pray inside the basilica, he notices he isn’t the last to arrive – Tedesco is, of course.

The cardinals sit at the front, near the altar, their crimson cassocks intermingled with the calm blue of the Sisters of Charity as well as black and brown and grey – other clergy sits with them as well, an abbess from France, a priest from somewhere in northern Poland, a group of pilgrims all the way from Argentina.

Vincent’s wish – it was a Vincent’s wish, for the best seats to go to some of the more modest positions. And so Thomas had obliged.

The space is almost silent; except for the occasional shuffles of someone trying to walk as quietly as possible in the vast marble interior as to not disturb those praying. Thomas loves this church – it may not be entirely his favourite church on the globe, but he’s lived at the Vatican long enough to grow familiar with it. He adores those rounded arches above his head, the frescoes and the dome floating high above – changed so many times before the construction. And of course: Bernini’s baldacchino above the altar: bronze, darkened with age, but once not entirely unlike Vincent’s skin.

It's a triumph, surely – and as vespers end and the Liturgy of the hours begins, the voices of the lecturers disturbing the air, Thomas sits entirely at peace. His prayers had come to him, his faith as strong as decades ago. When he’d spoken with his sister earlier in the day, she had expressed concern – and then surprise, as she claimed he sounded better, younger, even.

“I thought that Christmas would run you into the ground,” she had said, and Thomas had laughed, not afraid to blush, as there was no way she’d see his face.

Vincent. That’s all Thomas has to say about it to himself and that single word explains a lot; it’s the only explanation necessary.

It’s waking up next to Vincent, to a kiss and a loudly proclaimed: “¿Puedes levantarte, por favor?” It’s shared meals and brushing Vincent’s hair. It’s not mentioning that what they might have is wrong – but only in the eyes of the Church, because how could God see love as a sin? How could God, He who loved humans enough to send them his only son to love, see it as something wrong?

Thomas knows Vincent agrees silently. How could what they have be wrong, when it fills Thomas with so much light? These are the first few days of something that will last.

All invited slowly flood the basilica, sitting in the spots Thomas had assigned them; and then finally, at the stroke of midnight, the choir starts up and Vincent enters. Fully vested, carrying his processional cross, as always accompanied by Nowak and Mueller, he looks gracious, the smile that plays on his lips is tender.

Those are the lips that I have kissed, Thomas thinks. The hair I had brushed.

Thomas knows Vincent, Innocentius, is not often intimidated; but he’d admitted to Thomas he was afraid and, even if it may not add an hour to the day and therefore worrying makes no sense, he was worried. Thomas had few words of reassurance as he himself was afraid – afraid for Vincent.

All rise – Vincent has reached the altar and now, the gathered brethren respond to his sign of the cross with one loud clear Amen.

Ah, yes. Vincent had no reason to worry – Thomas shouldn’t’ve been afraid either. The basilica is safe, almost no place could be safer for Vincent (maybe Thomas’s arms) and he’s a good shepherd. A truly exceptional one.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.” Vincent starts.

The mass is multilingual; Vincent speaks shortly but swiftly and often repeats himself in few of the languages he speaks – sister Agnes did bar him from using French, though. Thomas has to say it creates a welcoming atmosphere; the sister in the seat next to him, clearly not an Italian, clings to the Holy Father and Thomas could swear he can see her light up as Vincent switches from one language to another.

His voice is beautiful, of course – both spoken but also sung. Thomas wishes no one else would join in the singing: but then he immediately and silently asks for forgiveness.

Vincent hadn’t told Thomas what second reading he’d chosen; it’s a surprise. A surprise that makes Thomas’s heart flutter with joy.

One John Four.

Thomas tears up; he bows his head to hide his… weakness? Is it a weakness to love?

Vincent moves graciously and full of intent as he leads the mass; the congregation gently follows him. It’s a great celebration, the birth of Jesus – and even if in a few months, the liturgical calendar arrives at the celebration of His martyrdom and resurrection, it’s a celebration of hope, more than anything else. A new pope – a raised glass to a new era within the church.

And then finally, the homily: Thomas can see Tedesco wince as Yousafzai’s words flow off Vincent’s lips – words of acceptance and love. Of respect and faith.

Thomas doesn’t hide his tears anymore – let’s one run down his cheek and when Vincent invites them to pray, he bows his head, and his tears drip down on the marble below his feet. The remainder of the mass later feels like a dream – he spends it in a haze.

Accepting the Body and Blood is absolution. Why? He isn’t sure.

“Go and announce the Gospel of the Lord.” Vincent ends the mass once the lines for the Eucharist have dissipated.

“Thanks be God,” Thomas mutters with the rest of the congregation.

He waits for Vincent; of course he does. The pope goes around as he would after any other ordinary mass. He shakes hands, exchanges a few words here and there – but Thomas can tell he doesn’t linger for so long. It’s almost as if the excitement of meeting ordinary people is greater for Vincent, grander than meeting presidents and diplomats and rich benefactors.

The church is nothing without its people – the people are the church. Of course Vincent doesn’t entirely enjoy the company of those who hold power and do so little to better the lives of others.

Thomas slips outside the church into the cold, freezing air to wait as Vincent goes to the sacristy to disrobe. He waits in the shadow, as the congregation slowly spills out of the basilica. His breath is visible; condensed, it rises upward towards the night sky – the sky which is not as dark as it should be in the glow of Rome’s streetlamps, a sky which takes on a yellow gleam, unnatural and yet oddly fascinating.

Thomas thinks about how he should maybe try and talk Vincent into going to summer residence at Castel Gandolfo, but before he can really plot how to do that, Vincent is walking towards him, Enzo few steps behind.

Silently, they head home.

It’s late – nearing three in the morning, if Thomas sees his watch correctly in the darkness of the corridors of the Apostolic palace. The echoes have started to sound welcoming to Thomas – familiar and homely. Like driving into your hometown after having been away for a while, your body accustomed to all the turns twists of the well-known roads.

“Tea?” Vincent asks when the heavy door shuts behind them, Enzo proudly stationed right outside.

“Yes, please,” Thomas nods even if they should probably go straight to bed, and bends down to pull off his boots. His spine creaks.

Vincent disappears into the kitchen; Thomas grabs the package he’d dropped off before Vespers and goes after him. This is why he was nearly late. This is why he had slipped away into Rome, incognito and invisible, just another old man; a foreigner who had moved into the city years ago, but still can’t fool the locals, even with his near-perfect fluent Italian.

The kitchen is flooded with that terrible white light; it reflects off the ochre tile; Vincent is beautiful in the diffused light. But he always is.

Thomas steps closer as the kettle starts to bubble, hiding the gift behind his back.

“You may have refused all other gifts but let me give you one.” Thomas knows their old bones need the sleep and especially Vincent’s broken ribs. But he doesn’t want to wait any longer.

Vincent turns to look at him, hair a little ruffled from how he pulled his sweater over his head earlier. “You shouldn’t’ve, Tómas.” He frowns softly.

“I wanted to.” Thomas says and hands the package over.

He’d wrapped it in old newspaper – God is his witness he didn’t even know he had old newspaper at his flat, but there it was, as if waiting for this opportunity, for a gift to be given. It’s rectangular and pretty light – Thomas knows it will grow heavier over time.

Vincent takes the gift in his hands just as the kettle clicks off. The water will stay hot enough for a while; Thomas can see how touched Vincent is from the shine in his eyes and how his shoulders have slumped. He slowly, carefully unfolds the old newspaper where Thomas had folded it (ah, Thomas remembers why he had saved it – it’s from London, an article about the dissolution of the British government on the front page – it had felt so final then, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter now).

Vincent chuckles in joy; he holds a photo album in his hands. Thomas couldn’t resist when he found it in a bookshop: its cover is hard-shell, the size is exactly the same as Vincent’s full, old album; the hard cardboard is white with golden baroque-style décor. The papal photo album.

“Thank you,” Vincent smiles at Thomas.

“Open it!” Thomas replies and folds his hands on his chest, hip leaning against the counter.

Vincent flips the hard-shell cover open.

Thomas knows what he finds in there, empty pages, mostly. Ready for what’s to come – for new travels, new faces, new churches and new memories. But those new memories have already started to form; they can be tallied up on a wall, or recorded in a diary – or as photos, in an album.

Vincent wants to do a tour of refugee camps in the Mediterranean in the summer; visit the sight of the bombings in Munich; pay his respects at the graveyard for the victims of the Srebrenica genocide. Return to Mexico. For all that, there is space.

The first four plastic sleeves are already occupied, though. Thomas had chosen with great care and got help from Agnes with the printer; the idea of a gift for Vincent was a persistent one, even as the Holy Father refused all other gifts and asked for donations to be made instead.

The first photo is of Vincent, stepping onto the balcony above St Peter’s square, the announcement of a new pope – in the photo, Vincent is out of focus; his silhouette is blurry and dark; one can make out individual figures in the crowd below.

The second photo is a group photo of figures in blue; Thomas had been the one to take it, the Sisters of Charity assembled in the courtyard of Casa Santa Marta. Some of the women’s faces are distracted or turned away; sister Agnes is in the very middle of the front row, accompanied by sister Agatha on the right and sister Judith on the left, all three of them laughing. Thomas has a perfect photo, where all the women are looking into the camera – but this one spoke to him more, and he has a feeling it would speak more to Vincent, too.

The third is an old one; it’s yellowed, and a little water damaged. Thomas put it in either way, feeling nervous about including it.

“Is that… you?” Vincent grins.

“Might be.” Thomas can’t resist a blush.

Yes, it’s him – nearly forty years ago, a photograph taken by his mother. A young Thomas, just ordained, still with that ridiculous moustache his sister had tried to talk him out of for years. He smiles at the camera, in black and white, all those decades ago.

“Well, no. Is that cardinal Bellini?” Vincent keeps a straight face.

“Of course it’s me!” Thomas protests in mock-offense.

“You still look exactly the same,” Vincent says and looks back down at the photo.

“Do I?” Thomas wants to know.

“Still as beautiful,” Vincent mutters quietly and flips the page. He probably wants to give Thomas a heart attack.

Thomas had finally used the phone number on a torn-off piece of paper, which had been sitting in the pocket of his coat for a while now. Isabella, the evolutionary biologist, as Thomas suspected, has her smartphone nearly glued in her hand – of course she has photos of Innocent XIV serving mass in St Peter’s square.

The fourth photo shows a white-clad figure, back turned to the crowd, bowing to the altar. The heads of the crowd can be seen, as Isabella had raised her phone in her hand up and snapped fifteen photos for Thomas to pick out of.

Vincent stares at that one for a while – Thomas proceeds to finish making the tea, as there is a real chance they’d have to re-boil the kettle, if they let it stand for longer.

“Tómas, I don’t know what to say…” Vincent sets the open photo album on the counter.

“That’s enough for me,” Thomas laughs.

Vincent wraps his hands around Thomas’ waist and lays his cheek against his chest.

“We have to go to bed. It’s very late, Vicent.” Thomas says.

“Just – just hold me for a while.”