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It is early, the night only just ripened to morning. Dawn pours through the high windows of the Holy Father’s office, painting the stone floor in slanting, geometric lines. Motes of dust float through the air, caught within the periphery of sunlight. One of the windows has been left open, enough for the subtle edge of the early spring breeze to cling to the austere walls. The faint chortle of birdsong, the rustling of newly budded leaves drift in on the cold air, too early in the morning for the inescapable chaos of the Santa Marta to penetrate the space. And through it all, Cardinal Thomas Lawrence, frozen in the threshold of the doorway with a file of papers clutched in his fist, finds he cannot move.
Pope Innocentius XIV is bowed over his desk, fast asleep. His arms are folded under his head, face burrowed into the hollow between his limbs. Dark hair pools over his white sleeves like ink, spilling across his forehead and obscuring his features from view. If he squints, Thomas can just barely make out the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, the low rhythm of his breath.
Something tightens in his chest. It is impossible not to juxtapose this version of the Holy Father to the first time Thomas ever beheld him. Clad in black, body curled inward as he slept on the chair in Thomas’ office. The stranger in their midst. The unmoored, unknown cardinal in his ill-fitting borrowed cassock, now elevated beyond any earthly station and no doubt creasing his papal robes against his desk. It still humbles Thomas, almost a year into his papacy, the miracle of this man, the blessing of his continued presence. He considers stepping back out into the hallway, leaving Vincent and the soft tableau that surrounds him undisturbed. But he is rooted in place, something about seeing the Holy Father so untethered from the material world compelling beyond words.
The file remains clutched uselessly in his fist. He can feel it begin to bend in the warmth of his hand, sweat weakening the paper. Swallowing his hesitation, Thomas crosses the entrance and gingerly closes the heavy door behind him, the wood meeting the frame with a dull thud. The Holy Father—Vincent, he corrects himself, knowing how the poor man flinches under the weight of private honorifics, does not stir. How long has he been here, curled over his desk? Thomas had presumed the office empty, Vincent not expected at his first appointment for a few hours still. He remembers parting ways with him the previous night. The two of them had walked the courtyard in a comfortable silence once the rest of the Santa Marta had turned in for the evening, an occurrence well on its way to becoming tradition. Had he come straight to his office after Thomas departed, sleeping at his desk out of necessity? Thomas can see it so clearly in his mind; Vincent, exhausted with his head in his hands, eyes drooping as his body grew too tired to carry himself back to his rooms. Something about the thought unsettled him deeply, tendrils of guilt curling in his stomach.
Vincent is no stranger to the horrors of the world, a fact that Thomas constantly must remind himself as he bites his tongue against his urge to shelter, to protect. But there is a singular agony in the office of the papacy. One that Thomas has spent the last fifteen years of his life watching weigh on the late Holy Father like an iron tied around the old man’s neck, up until the day of his death. He cannot stomach the thought of Vincent suffering as he had, enduring sleepless nights and paranoid mornings. The new Holy Father is usually a flighty thing, thin hands never still, ill-content with any sense of inertia. Thomas knows this all too well. Many of his own hours are spent trailing after him like a looming shadow, trying to keep pace. But in the past few months, there has been a growing tension visible within the new Pope. Dark circles under his large, well water eyes that only ever get darker, a tautness to his shoulders like a bowstring. It was only a matter of time before Vincent’s seemingly endless well of energy ran dry. Thomas grits his teeth, a familiar surge of shame swelling within him like a tide. He should have done more. He should have followed him back to his suite, stayed with him until he could personally ensure that he found a more comfortable rest.
Thomas places the file on the edge of the desk, wincing at the dents his grip left on the manila folder. He glances down at Vincent, close enough now to glimpse the thin sliver of silver at his temple, the delicate structure of his wrists. From this scant distance, he can feel the heat rise from his body, exacerbated by the chill permeating the room. He wants, for one desperate moment, nothing more than to touch him. To close his palm against his shoulder, his weathered, liver-spotted hand creasing the white robe under his grip. He can almost conjure the sensation of Vincent’s warmth bleeding through the fabric, seeping into his fingertips. Proximity emboldens his imagination; he could shake him awake, feel his slender frame tense and relax against his palm. Vincent would pull himself up, graceful as always, and blink the sleep from his wide eyes. He would say Thomas’ name in his soft, bell-like voice, smiling in that august way of his, the edges of his eyes crinkling with the weight of his delight.
His traitorous mind spins further from his control, chasing the thread of his fantasy. Vincent in repose, no longer slumped over his desk but supine in Thomas’ bed. The shape of his body under his threadbare sheets, the dark spread of his hair across his pillows. That radiant warmth soaking into the mattress. And Thomas, curled around him in his sleep, an old guard dog at the foot of his bed.
Vincent shifts suddenly, his head rolling against his arms to seek a more comfortable position. His breathing remains slow, steady, still stuck in the treacle of sleep. Thomas freezes. Yanking his hand back as if burned, he curls his fingers into a fist to stop himself from reaching out. The fantasy shatters in his mind, censure flooding the space it leaves behind. It would be beyond selfish, bordering sinful, to roust him just for Thomas’ pleasure. Here, sleeping on the job, is the most relaxed he has seen Vincent in months. It is the least he can provide for him now, allowing him his rest. And Thomas was loath to deny him anything, a truth about himself he could hardly put a name to.
Days after his election, Vincent had called Thomas into this very office and assured him that, should he still wish to retire, he would support his decision and would do all he can to ease his transition. Thomas had knelt to kiss his ring, savored the feel of warm metal against his lips, and promised to take the Holy Father up on his offer once he felt his work was complete. It has been nearly a year since this encounter. The fantasy of retirement is nothing more than a fleeting fancy, a notion rarely indulged. In its stead, Thomas finds himself bolstered by the unfolding intimacy between him and the Pope. He cherishes every stolen moment; the cups of tea shared between them in the small hours of the night, the short strolls to see the turtles, the silent walks through deserted halls. His struggles with prayers have been transfigured; it is these moments he finds himself replaying behind his eyes as he kneels next to his bed each night, bowed in supplication.
He still has doubts, yes, and knows he always will, cautiously content with his own uncertainty. Ever since the Room of Tears, his hand held in Vincent’s like it was something precious, the pervasive sense of disillusionment that marked his every motion has been swept away. He feels as if a great river has routed itself through him, stripping his ribs and heart clean of the stale melancholy of his life before.
Sometimes, it feels as if Vincent’s very presence brought him closer to God. An idea bordering idolatry, but no less real for it. He is an old man, dedicated above all to his faith, and indulgence is a rare sin, one he cannot help but begrudge himself. It should worry him, this newfound absence of guilt. But the longer he hovers at Vincent’s shoulder, watching his back expand and contract with the swell of his lungs, the less he can bring himself to care.
The cold morning air pierces deeper with every passing minute. Thomas shivers, breaking his reprieve. He walks to the window, the crisp blue sky visible only as he presses himself against the glass. Vincent, from his position at his desk, would only be able to see the stone walls of the Santa Marta, not even the courtyard trees discernible from that angle. He reaches up and closes the window in a single, deft motion. Immediately the resulting silence settles over the room, Vincent’s heavy breathing rendered louder in the absence. Once he wakes, Thomas considers, he can propose they move the desk for a more scenic view. There is no reason for him to be deprived of the open sky.
There are no excuses left to linger. Thomas ambles to the doorway, dragging out each step to savor the peace of the moment. Hand against the ancient wood, he allows himself one last look across the room. Sunlight has finally encroached onto the desk, setting the white of Vincent’s cassock aglow, his unruly hair lit like a halo. With a shuddering sigh, he steps out and shuts the door as gently as he can muster. In a few hours time, should the Holy Father still be asleep, he will return to rouse him. Meanwhile, Vincent can finally rest; Thomas will be here, standing sentinel at the threshold, ensuring no one else will disturb him.