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Chapter Text

“My niece is staying for a few months this summer.” 

The words spill out of his mouth in the early morning hours spent in the study, and he cringes at his tone of voice. He sounded… eager. Excited to share this information. And he is- but he does not want to come across this way. Desperate like a small child. 

“Oh?” Vincent does not look up from his work, but Lawrence feels satisfied at the slight smile that inches across the man’s face. “This is exciting. You have enough room in your apartments to host her?”

“Too much,” He makes a face, still disgruntled about the abundance of space he is allotted due to his position. “I’m almost concerned I won’t know that she’s there if she disappears around a corner.” 

“How old is the girl?” 

“Hana?” He smiles at her name, the same warmth of affection he feels for her mother bestowed onto her own child. “She’s just turned 15. She’s aged out of her usual summer camps and my sister has a medical mission trip in July and August. And she’s never been able to sit still,”

Vincent hums, intrigued. “Roma would be the perfect place for a girl like that to explore.” He looks up at Thomas, a considering light in his eyes. “I would love to meet her, should the opportunity come up. Is she considering vocational life?” 

He snorts before he can stop himself. “Not exactly in my domain,” He remarks offhandedly and returns to his open laptop, blinking at his inbox for pertinent correspondence.  

The Holy Father’s typing pauses. “I’m intrigued by what you mean by that,” 

“Oh,” It disturbs him that he has not brought up the basic facts of his life to a man he cherishes very much. “My youngest sister- Mi-Sook- is Jewish.” 

Vincent looks at him now, curiosity plain on his face. “Jewish?” He knits his eyebrows together, like he has to calculate the possible relations, and how the English Dean of Cardinals could happen to have a Jewish sibling. 

“She moved to the United States, converted in college and met her husband- Benji.” These are very basic facts of his life that come out very easily. “The most intimidating thing I’ve ever done was lifting her in that chair on her wedding day. The rabbi pulled me away around three minutes into the ordeal, a happy choice for all involved” 

“And your parents?” Vincent harbors no judgement as he slides his glasses down his nose. “What was their reaction?”

Thomas blinks. “They were never very religious. My mother belonged to the church of Scotland, and it was only happy accident that I was baptized in a Catholic mass.” He elaborates after a moment of silent. “You see, a pub near Corpus Christi Cathedral had a half-off pint special on the day of my christening.”

“Wisdom that cannot be bargained with,” Vincent contributes, shock still apparent on his face. 

 “Really,” He considers the situation of his life. “I was the odd one for my chosen path. Mi-Mi just gave up pork and gets Saturdays off. They could understand that. Not my profession.” 

“Oh.” His eminence chooses amusement now. “So your Jewish American niece is staying the summer with a Catholic cardinal in the heart of the Vatican? Should make for an interesting story,” 

“She’s also Korean,” Thomas chooses to mention now, lest it slip his mind before he shows up with his niece. “My father adopted Mi-Sook during his time in the early 70s as a diplomat.” 

“My dear Thomas.” His friend says after staring at him for a beat. “Please get into the habit of telling me things.” 

Thomas does not mean to be a blank wall of personality. It is just his natural disposition to make concerned faces, stay quiet, and deliberate all of the circumstances in his life without so much saying a word to anyone else. 

The only reason Aldo has such an insight to his comings and goings is due to the shoebox apartment they shared in seminary school. There are no secrets that can ever be fully hidden in such a small space, especially when air conditioning is nowhere to be found on a New York City night. 

That was how Bellini had found him dangling off his bunk with the house phone they’d agreed to split the price on, taking a collect call from England. 

“Mi-Mi,” 23-year-old Lawrence whispered worriedly into the phone at 3 in the morning. “Do you need me to send you money for new pretty shoes?” He lets the other person on the line speak. “Hush, it’s not a bother. If you need red ones, you need red ones. Only the best for my girl.” 

Aldo looks down from the top bunk, vaguely horrified that Thomas Lawrence is the ones to break his vows of celibacy so early on. 

It is not a surprise that there are those in the program with girlfriends. Half of them will drop out and become happy husbands. The others will undoubtedly rise to the top as bishops. Even he is not against a night of fun- confession, after all, is a sacrament. But Thomas? Straight edged Thomas? 

“Your dress? Has anyone been able to patch it up yet?” His roommate seems bizarrely concerned with this woman’s appearance, a strange point to Aldo. He would assume that one would want a long distance girlfriend to be as unappealing to others as possible. “There’s needles in the bathroom top drawer, and string in the second. Ask the neighbors to teach you how to sew.” 

The voice on the other line comes back garbled. 

“Yes, Mi-Mi. I wish I was there to do it for you too. I miss you very much. Have a good day at school, yeah?” 

The phone clicked back into its holder with a scratch. But the ending words in Lawrence’s call was enough to wake Aldo up and off his bed. 

Thomas looked at him with wide eyes in the dim moon light, right before Aldo’s fist collided with his nose. 

“Aldo?!” His voice is garbled with blood up his nostrils “Bwoody ‘ell!” 

“I’ll do it again.” He says coldly, holding Thomas by the neck. “I will report this indiscretion to every professor, every priest, every official in this school.” His grip tightens and Thomas chokes. “Tell them how you’re calling a schoolgirl, with promises of nice shoes and dresses in the middle of the night. And if they won’t do anything, I assure you I will take it upon myself that you will never become a priest or someone with functioning fingers.”

“Tha’s-”Thomas sputters, and Aldo numbs himself to any excuse. Except for the one that the other man manages to spit out. “My sister! My sister!” 

“Oh,” Aldo drops his position like hot coals. He still hovers over the would-be offender, ready to strike again should any answer prove unsatisfactory.  “Your what?” 

“Mi-Sook, 12-years-old,” Thomas coughs into his elbow, like the gentleman he always is. “She's not adjusting well to my absence, and wanted to call me before she went to school. I’ll pay off the phone bill,” He promises, as if that was the main concern. 

“You have a sister?” Aldo blinks- he’s known the man for two months and no mention of this has ever come up. “And her name is Mi-Sook?” 

“People are allowed to have Korean sisters,” Thomas defended, like this was a completely obvious statement to make. “And yes- I’m a fair bit older than her. So I’ve always taken care of her. Very hard to do an ocean away but I make do.” He shrugged, the linens of his pajamas creasing with the movement. 

“Ah.” Aldo takes a step back, then squints. “Can I see a picture of her?” Better safe than sorry. 

Immediately, Thomas reaches into a cache on his bedside and hands him a wrinkled photo of a sweet girl in a school jumper. It’s a well-loved photo, like it’s been stuffed in many- a- wallet and taken out through the day. 

As he examines it, Thomas takes the chance to make another declaration. “It’s especially difficult for her, as my father is dying in a hospital and my mum is mental.” 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Aldo puts his hands up, and then massages his forehead. It may be his imagination, but he senses that he’s lost a few inches of his hairline from this. “Your father is dying?” 

“Not dying,” Thomas sighs, and holds a handkerchief to his nose. “But close to it. Cancer, with very heavy chemotherapy. And Mum has cracked- yelling, uncleanliness, neglect, the whole lot. I’m worried for all of them- but especially Mi-Sook. It’s very hard for her.” 

Aldo breathes in. If he puffs up his chest and it ruptures a heart vessel, maybe he can leave this conversation preemptively. “I am sorry to hear that.” 

“What for?” His roommate blinks at him. Blood has stained his white undershirt. If Aldo was a more insufferable person, he’d make a bible reference to the suffering of Christ. Or something. “You didn’t do anything,”

“Your father-” He gestures his hands frantically, then decides against explaining it. “Never mind. Well, sorry for the nose.” 

“I appreciate the reaction you gave to what you assumed to be the case,” Thomas shrugs, and that is that. 

They don’t talk about Thomas’s sister, or crumbling family situation. They don’t talk about how annoying Thomas finds the blood stains, and how he ends up asking the sisters downstairs for help getting them out. They do not dissuade rumors that Thomas Lawrence, golden boy, may be in a night gang boxing circuit. 

Aldo thinks they should have discussed it more. Especially with how a week later, he comes back from a divinity lecture to Mi-Sook dangling upside down off his bed and Thomas looking happier than ever. 

“Aldo!” He says and hands the other man the cup of coffee he’s holding. “This is the sister I told you about! She’s staying with us for the summer.” 

When Vincent Benitez, the Holy Father, now mentions offhandedly that Dean Lawrence is hosting his sweet niece for June, July, and August, there is very little Bellini can do. 

He chooses to leave the room without another word and stare at a crucifix in the hall. 

“You cannot comprehend,” He whispers heretically to the lord savior. “The pains I will suffer again. You cannot.” 

Jesus just stares back, and maybe Aldo imagines the pity in the carved wooden eyes. But after all, it can be very easily argued that the reason he is so neurotic is because of long term exposure to the Lawrences. 

Chapter Text

Spring in Rome is exceedingly pleasant. That is, for the two days it lasts. Then, it’s onto the wrath of summer’s hot anger that will not relent for a moment of peace. 

May comes and passes in the blurry heat and series of referendum to ordinances and correspondence with the Mother Church’s many facets. It is such an occupied month, that Vincent only realizes it is over when he glances at the top of his screen one morning. 

“¡Ay!!” He exclaims in his native tongue, appreciating the polylingual nature of his closest advisor. “Thomas, it’s June 4th!” 

The English man looks up from his current stack of documents. “Indeed, it is,” He slips into accented Spanish. “And we have five appointments today. Possibly a sixth, if we can manage” 

“Yes,” Vincent waves a hand, uncaring of the details he takes for granted. There will always be work to do “But it’s June . I hadn’t even realized.  Remind me when you said your niece was coming?” 

The truth was, Lawrence had never given him a date or much more of an inkling of what the child’s stay would persist of. Whenever they drifted to the topic in conversation, he would either admit that the details hadn’t quite been straightened out yet or rave about his American family until their next task at hand. 

Now, Vincent knew a few more things about the Lawrences. 

Mi-Sook was a doctor whose specialty Thomas was not quite sure on. “We talk about other things-” He always prefaces in explanation. “We’re both much more interested in discussing the newest murder mystery on the telly than job happenings.” She’s published well-received books under a name Thomas is yet to inform him of. She likes peach cobbler, painting, and has gotten arrested five times.

“ All for good causes,” He’s been assured, but no elaboration beyond that. 

Specifics on Hana, their young guest, are similarly vague. She’s to finish the rest of her term online, as the trip cuts in to the last few academic weeks. However, Thomas lets it slip as he wrings his hands, this will do little to actually occupy her. 

“Incredibly intelligent- such a smart girl. Dare I say, too much for her own good-“ 

He talks of her like a feral puppy that constantly needs stimulation lest he look away and she runs off to bite someone. 

“ How is she,“ Aldo asked in the hall one day between meetings, and Vincent stays to the sideline of the conversation. “ Compared to her mother?” 

The Secretary of State, from his long history with Lawrence, seems familiar with the nature of their friend’s family. However, he infuriatingly refuses to disclose any of it, instead closing his eyes for five long seconds and groaning to the heavens above whenever he meets an inquiry. 

“In some respects better, in many more, worse.” Thomas answers, his usual concern about everything ever to possibly happen absent- even to Bellini’s visible distress.

And they never continue in the line of questioning, as the chief imam of Saudi Arabia had finally arrived. And that was in mid-May- what felt like a lifetime ago. 

Speaking of, the man never told him when his niece was coming. 

“Thomas.” Vincent prods and changes to English. “Earth to Thomasso.” He uses the Italian nickname only to provoke him with the hallmark of a certain Venetian bishop. 

It works as Lawrence jolts his head up, unable to scrub the sour expression off his face. “Apologies, my dear Vincent. I thought I had answered you. She’s coming June fourth.” 

Vincent blinks. “Today.” 

Thomas hums in response. “Quite. She is our sixth appointment. Which I only mention so that we can continue with our work and have time for her evening arrival.” 

“Hana- is she on the plane right now? Does she have a ride? Can she speak Italian to make her way around?” 

Vincent is overcome with an incredible sense of dizziness. Thomas- the manager, the faithful servant, the worrier- who frets if the pope’s socks are not laid out accordingly in the morning. Who does not seem to worry about a teenager’s arrival to a foreign country and who has never mentioned it to anyone. 

“Yes, she is. She quite enjoyed the O’Hare airport, but couldn’t get anyone to serve her alcohol.” Thomas moves onto his next stack of papers. “She’s getting into Aeroporto Fiumicino at around 3, and I’ve sent Ray to pick her up. Only because she respects him. If it were me going, I think she’d be happy to sneak off to explore the continent. And Italian-” He shrugged. “She’s charismatic enough.” Like that is the sole requirement to learn a language. 

“Oh,” Because that’s all there is to say. Soon, the mystery will be revealed and Vincent will wonder no longer. Or maybe he’ll just know what questions to ask. 

“Now, onto correspondence with the archdiocese of Amastris-” 

By evening, Vincent has not forgotten about Thomas’s niece. But without further mention of her by the man, he has almost convinced himself that it was a figment of his imagination. 

But after a light supper- where Thomas in true fashion only had half a portion- there was a request for the Dean to come to the Turtle Gardens. 

Of course, it was referred to as a plaza of some saint or other- but Vincent has long blanked on the name for it. His current interest is in the figures of O’Malley and the crouched small shadow above the waters. 

 Thomas quickened his pace from his side with an uncharacteristic lightness. In a moment, he had glided across the grass only delayed by the limits of his cassock and to the young person’s side. 

They embrace, Thomas’s hug all consuming- and it is strange. 

Vincent has never thought of his dear friend as a protector. It is uncharitable, maybe. Yes, Thomas speaks up in measured tones and outbursts alike. He is rigid in what he stands for and willing to take a stand. That much was illuminated with the goings of the conclave and the following stamina after. 

But there always seems to be a wilt about him- as if he was the downtrodden Christ spoke of. But here, in the moment of familial intimacy, Vincent can see him for what he is- a shepherd with his flock. Willing to manage the flock, yes, but also to guard them with his life. 

He clears his throat, awkwardness gilding all his observation. Yes. Strange. 

O’Malley has apparated to his side. “You must know, Holy Father,” The Irish lilt in his voice has grown stronger. “That in these next three months, we will be having our hands very full.” 

Vincent looks to the monsignor, bemused. “Is she an unkind girl?” 

“Not at all, and I don’t mean just with her.” Ray darts his eyes, left to right. “It’s - you see. I’ve known the man for a long time- have provided myself to be at his whims. Thomas Lawrence often works himself into the ground, not unlike a machine. He’s in his head at every moment of the day. But sometimes,” He points his finger up to the heavens, as if the following is a God-given decree. “He is reminded of his humanity.” 

The two reunited family members walk over to them now, as Ray mutters his last word on the matter- “And that is where the trouble begins.”

Hana Lawrence Burns is an exceedingly pleasant girl. 

Almost too pleasant, Vincent thinks vaguely as she shakes his hand with vigor, for the reputation that precedes her. 

“Mr. Vincent!” She says, cheerful, brushing away long black curls that frame her face. Dark freckles cover her cheeks- a likely testament to a penchant for the outdoors and sun damage. “It’s very nice to meet you. My uncle has told me a lot about you.” 

He does a good job of biting down surprise- a skill that kept him alive and serves him well in his papal role. “I’m glad,” He manages. 

They sit in the dim pristine Curia kitchen, relatively alone. Thomas has gone off to handle a matter, with O’Malley a few paces behind him. Enrico and Adrien, two stone faced guards resistant to any socializing, stand at the entrance uninvolved with them. He is both flattered with the trust given to look after the newest charge, and odd-footed in a way he’s not used to when interacting with people. 

He’s taken it upon himself to dish out two plates of gelato, the larger portion going to the recent traveler. He slides the bowl across the counter along with a spoon. Without much preamble, Hana dives in and doesn’t take many breaths between bites to chatter. 

She actually turned fifteen not even a month ago- which is very embarrassing to be the youngest in your grade, don’t you think? She likes high school enough and gets good marks. But she suspects that there’s more to life than uncomfortable desks and geometry proofs. She likes kimbap and kugel, has tried combining them into an unholy creation. She wants to be a politician, a lawyer or maybe a movie clerk (for the free tickets). She got in trouble though, because she made the criminal justice club. Not because her teachers are unprogressive of course, but because she did a demonstration against the use of torture and waterboarding yourself is not permitted on school grounds. 

Vincent finds himself laughing and nodding along to her remarks, and interrupting with his own anecdotes. She knows of the areas he’s lived in, because of her mother’s work. He makes a note to himself to inquire more about the nature of Mi-Sook’s practice, but doesn’t want to interrupt the fluid conversation with a teenager by bringing up a parent. 

He misses this easy connection with a stranger- something he’d taken for granted for so many years. When he meets young people today, it is a monumental event to them- one they will talk about for the rest of their lives. So he always has to perform. He misses the days of pickup soccer and hearing of homework woes. He also suspects that Hana’s refreshing lack of awe comes not from their religious differences, but the deep affection and ease she has with her own high ranking mumbling cardinal. 

With this appreciation of Thomas, both longstanding and newfound, he inquires lightly-  “Are you excited to spend a summer with your favorite uncle?”

“ Favorite uncle?” Hana looks at him curiously, leg propped up on her chair. Her converse shoes are skidded at the top, and stars drawn in sharpie lace the golden yellow fabric. “That’s quite assumptive.”

Vincent blinks. “Do you have,” he starts and wonders if he wants to know the answer to this. “Other uncles?”

“Yeah,” Hana smiles with all her teeth. “There’s four.” 

“There are four Lawrence children in total?” He feels a pang that despite Thomas’s new revelation of his family and relative willingness to talk about them, that he was in the dark about the full picture. 

“No..” Hana cocks her head, now confused. “Four other uncles.”

“Thomas has five siblings?”

“Yeah.” She licks at her spoon thoughtfully.  “Uncle James was in jail for 20 years because of the Troubles, so haven’t seen much of him. Not just because of his politics, more his penchant for arson.” Hana holds up her index finger. She sticks up another one. “Another - Paul- I’m pretty sure he has a monopoly on the Singapore ports through criminal means. Uncle Tommy still sends him Christmas cards.” 

“Wait.” Vincent holds up a hand. “James- he was in jail for the troubles? But the Lawrences are English.”

“Yeah, “ Hana cringes. “Do you know how bad you have to be that the Northern Irish court thinks you went overboard? Then there’s Moonbeam, formerly Malcolm.”  She steered on. “He’s a self described shaman in the Brazilian rainforest. Except he keeps on getting kicked out of every hippy collective while amassing followers. He might be the next big name cult leader,” 

“And the last one?” Vincent prompts. 

Hana takes her last spoon full of gelato and nods her head. “Todd-  very boring plain accountant guy. Who was then busted for the biggest rink of insider trading ever recorded in the UK. But he’s so boring.” 

Vincent opens his mouth then closes it. 

“But yeah, Tommy is my favorite uncle.” Hana dangles her feet from the chair too big for her. “He’s funny and smart. He and my mom have always been really close. He’s always been there for her- especially when Gran joined organized crime that one summer.”  

Thomas’s managerial skills, Vincent thinks with a layer of horror gilding his thoughts, are beginning to make an incredible amount of sense.

“And he makes sure to call at least twice a week.” Hana scrapes the bottom of her cup. Her endeavors are fruitless at reaping more.  “He tells us all the crazy things going around at the Vatican. Then my mom lets him in on the synagogue drama. It’s the same thing, really.” 

Vincent wordlessly passes her the frozen container. Hana unsettles the rest of its content into her bowl. “But yeah- anyways. Rome is going to be awesome. Uncle Thomas is great. I’m going to get a great tan.” She took up her spoon again and pointed it towards him. “Tell me, dude- have you ever watched Glee?” 

Thomas and Ray come back thirty minutes later, and they have discussed so many subjects that Vincent can no longer keep them straight. Something about a Rachel in a TV show, who is exactly like Rachel at Temple Shalom when it comes to the yearly talent show, and what are the implications of Rachel, the matriarch in Genesis? 

“We’d best be off,” Thomas places an affectionate hand on his niece’s hair, which she guffaws. Again, the lightness in his form has returned. “I hope she did not trouble you too much.” 

“No.” Vincent answers honestly. “She made a wonderful conversationalist.” 

His current distress does not come from the girl herself- not at all. But he looks at his friend now, with terrifying incomprehension.

Thomas, however, seems to be completely oblivious to this. After he gives  a short talk on the nature of tomorrow’s schedule, a promise to be the one to wake him for 5 AM mass, and a goodbye with more cheer than usual, the Lawrences go off into the night.

“Moonbeam,” He looks to Ray now, confident that the reference would inspire a response. 

The monsignor seriously shakes his head. “Your eminence,” He starts. “The more you look into this, the more you’ll inquire. And there are never any satisfying ends.” 

“I’ve found one,” Vincent picks up his own gelato, long melted. He stirs the liquid with his spoon. “I much better understand how Thomas is able to withstand the Curia for many years.” 

O’Malley hums, a habit he has picked up from the aforementioned cardinal. “The accusation that the Vatican runs like organized crime is not,” He ruffles with the papers of his schedule. “Entirely unsubstantiated. And as his family history demonstrates, I have no doubt he’d thrive in that field as well.” 

“Yes, what was it about his brother Paul and the ports of Singapore?” 

“Singapore?” O’Malley inclined his head, surprise evident on his face. “Last time I looked into it, I’d marked him down in Malaysia.” 

In the ensuing questions, Vincent chooses not to mention the Christmas card Thomas sends to the criminal mastermind even the best minds in the world cannot track down. It will all be revealed in due time. Or not at all. 

June, 1985

Aldo comes home, dizzy from an all nighter and  four hour lecture given on and in Ancient Greek. He struggles with the keys to his apartment- before he realizes that the “keys” he was using were actually a misidentified bottle opener. 

After a few moments more of struggle, he cracks open the door, ready to yell at Thomas and that kid, Moo-Moo for not helping him. Instead he is met with a carbon copy of his roommate. That is, if he didn’t believe in hair cuts or showering. 

“What the fuck, dude?” Not-Thomas groans, sitting at his counterpart’s desk. The window next to him is wide open. “You totally ruined my namaste, man .”

Said namaste is a blunt being rolled up on the surface in front of him. Aldo blinks, unbelieving. Maybe in the six hours between now and breakfast, Thomas has gone off the deep end and was now involved with illicit drug use and the anti-hygiene movement. 

Or this was another sibling who had shown up unannounced. 

Instead of deliberating more on this, he only groans and collapses on the top bunks, satchel full of books still on. 

He sleeps for the next two hours, and only awakens to a sound he’d never heard before- Thomas yelling. 

“Out, Malcom!” His shrill English roommate snaps his fingers. “Get out of my room- I don’t care that you climbed the window or came from Paraguay!”

“My name!” Their unwanted guest shrills back. “Is Moonbeam! And I’m only asking you keep me here for twenty days- that’s when the statute of limitations runs out. What is it your guy said- Jesus- Mi casa is your casa?” 

Aldo is awake now and watches the scene between blurry eyes. He sees Moo-Moo in the corner, clapping her hands in support of Thomas, egging him on. His friend seems wild, and has begun to drag Moonbeam-Malcum by the ear towards the door. 

“My guy said to forgive your brother seven by seventy times,” He seethes. “And if I’ve counted correctly this is your 511th action. Get out.” 

He slams the door, locks then deadbolts it, to the cheers of the kid. He marches over to the window, yanks it shut, then glances at Aldo who is now upright.

“Sorry for the disruption.” He says casually. “Mi-mi and I were going to get Chinese food tonight. Are you interested in joining?”

Aldo stares at the door. He thinks he can still hear Moonbeam bellowing outside.

He looks back to Thomas, the man expectant of his answer. “I’d be up for Chinese.”

Chapter Text

Thomas, contrary to popular belief, remains well aware that the landscape of his mind is not a pleasant place to be. 

This trait may make him a good Catholic priest, he supposes in the early morning. His thin face reflects back at him in the bathroom mirror, steam from his shower still obscuring the view. He itches at his chin, and cringes when he feels a missed spot of stubble. 

He picks up his razor. The only reason he uses shaving cream is to avoid nicks he would be questioned on. Concern and attention is something to avoid at all costs. The thought of it makes him itch. So he applies gauze and shaves like a surgeon, heeding to not have his skin hitch on the sharp end. 

He often thinks that he’d be much happier to be a disembodied voice that directs manners behind a curtain. He could support the people and causes he cares about without any regard given to him. Those in his life could go on with their days happily, without a tsk thrown his way about his lack of eating or the accusation that he runs himself into the ground. The attention would only be on them- and he cannot imagine a happier arrangement. 

There’s a noise down the hall and he startles. Oh no, A thought occurs to him. Death of the Dean in a home invasion would be a nightmare for Aldo to sort out. Then a spark lights up with the recollection- Hana’s arrival yesterday. 

He turns off the faucet and after another moment of straightening himself out, trudges the long way to the noises. His apartment is an embarrassment- there remains no other way to put it. Ornate gold gilds the walls, and grand portraits of long-dead cardinals line the view. But with the nature of his profession, he spends nearly no time here anyway. And it would be more of a hassle to move to more satisfying accommodations.

 Besides, he has never been the person to need a home or strong footing. A lifetime of service in the church has long taught him he will go where needs be.  

The only modern fixture is the kitchen, and even there the refrigerator looks out of place. Hana has cracked it open and rifles through it now. Though as she pokes her head from behind the door with a sour expression, he can tell that she is not satisfied with her findings. 

“Uncle Tommy,” She sounds particularly affronted, voice still rough with sleep as it is four in the morning. “You don’t have any food in here- all you have is five things of open wine.” 

He lowers his eyebrows, and feels a vague surge of embarrassment.In truth, the open wine only comes from Aldo’s visits. Those are defined by the man’s euphoria or franticness, and always end with the insistence to crack open one of the tens of  bottles gifted to Thomas. If it were left to him, the fridge would be void of anything. 

That answer would not impress her, so he steers away from it. 

“There are protein bars on the top shelf,” He tries. 

Hana picks up the open box and wordlessly holds it upside down. Only wrappers topple out. 

He looks down at his bare feet. Guilt washes over him. “I know a place,” He offers in solution. She nods, expectant. 

“I hope there’s groceries in Vatican City,” She grumbles, five minutes later. She chose an outfit as eccentric as Joseph’s coat. She flattens the back of her converse to step into them, and in an efficient motion ties them twice over. “Because we’re going to have to do something about this for your welfare.”

His cassocks hang loosely across his shoulders as he opens the door for her. He needs to get better fitted ones- though he swore that he got them altered just last month.

No matter.  It is the start of a new day and he must appreciate that. He must, he must, he must - 

They sit in the window of the hole-in-the-wall cafe Aldo introduced him to as young priests. Piccolo Amico has not changed much since 1989. 

Laborers remain the chief source of income, and their boisterous laughter echoes out the door. The plates are the same and the noise from the kitchen still clatter through the dining room. The grime along the walls streaks throughout.  He can recognize the fist shaped hole in the corner that Aldo will not admit to from 1991.

It’s a comfort and entirely overwhelming. The smell of hearty oil filled meals makes his stomach churn and he presses his nose into black coffee to reorient himself. 

Across from him, Hana peers down the Roman street illuminated by the orange sunrise.

 “I like Italy.” She nurses her heavy cappuccino. “I’m bothered by the pretentious food culture though.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “This is in reference to how Ahmed does not provide waffles?” 

She grunts. Milk foam covers her nose as she stares off into the distance, mourning her preferred breakfast food. “It’s the economical meal. Perfect form of carbs- it has holes to collect the syrup and whipped cream. You can eat it with your hands, you know.” 

“You cannot,” He scolds. “Eat waffles with your hands.” 

“Worth a shot,” She shrugs and darts out her tongue to collect the foam on her lips. “What are you going to do today, Uncle Tommy?”

“Well,” He considers. “I’m to meet His Holiness in his quarters, provide him breakfast, give him an overview of the schedule. Then we pray before 6:30 mass.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “From 7:15 to 9, it’s the pertinent worldly matters. Then after, we correspond and have meetings. Today, it’s refugees from the Congo, then a general audience. Then perhaps an Italian official, if he responds.”

“Work ends at six, right?” She asks as she unfolds her napkin. “That’s like, twelve hours, dude.”

“Around half the time, it goes until nine,” He says, absent minded. Then bites his tongue with the realization that to a young child, such hours would concern them. 

Hana twists her face, displeasure with the arrangement evident. “Bruh,” She grumbles. “They better be paying you mad money.”

She looks so much like her mother, he realizes as she shakes her dark braided head. A needle sticks in his throat at the thought-

 he misses his sister.

 It is an open wound that aches, he realizes. They have lived their lives apart from each other. Forever in contact - he doesn’t doubt that she is the one with the most insight to his inner workings, besides perhaps Aldo. But phone calls only do so much.

If he squints at the guest across from him, he almost imagines he is back with 12-year-old Mi-Sook in a shady bar in New York City.

 He is young again- a full head of hair and straight back. He hears the clink of glasses and American rock. He smells the booze from his shift and the ache in his feet- 

Mi Mi looks at him, eyes bright and smile wide-  she is about to say something- 

Another blink, and the memory slips through his fingers. He becomes old and gray once more. 

Just as Hana chatters about life at school and plans for the summer, he can hear the traces of the girl he once knew. The one who held his hand while they crossed the street, whose bright red shoes he tied. Who came to him scared in a foreign city, with a dying father. Who has now grown up and taken the world into her hands- the best of what humanity has to offer. 

His regularly scheduled emotional moment gets interrupted as plates clatter across the table. Aldo’s friend and longtime owner Ahmed gives him an amused look as he puts down focaccia in front of Hana and a frittata slice on his side of the table. 

“No, friend, please.” He gestures. “I ordered both for her.” 

She’s a growing girl, after all. And all he is good for is staying still while the world passes him by. 

“Ha,” Hana replies, humorless. She dips the torn bread into olive oil. “I appreciate that that’s what you thought would happen.” 

Ahmed seems to agree, and leaves the two of their plates exactly where he’d set them down. Reluctantly, Thomas picks up a fork. 

They eat in pleasant silence, and he finds it within himself to enjoy the morning without worrying about the time. That is until Hana clears her throat. 

“So you spend a lot of time with the Vincent dude.” 

“His eminence, the Holy Father, inheritor of the papal throne, rock of the church- Pope Innocentius XVI,” He grumbles with an attempt at humour. The frittata sits in his stomach like a weight. “Yes I do spend time with him.

“Sure,” Hana waves the details off. “He seemed nice when I met him yesterday,” 

Nice. Nice almost seems like a false title for the man that Vincent is. That is a descriptor you use for the person who holds the door open for you a split second longer. Not the man who carries himself with dignity, whose care reeks through his entire being. Ultimate goodness, God’s messenger, a person he would devote his life to serving. 

“He’s the best that humanity has to offer,” He answers instead with the same phrase he often credits to Mi-Sook. “I am happy with where he is taking the ministry- there’s no one I’d rather work with.” 

Work- a word that does not encompass of the exact nature of what he does everyday. But it’s close enough for the purposes of explanation to a teenager. 

She remains unsatisfied. “Uh-huh. So are you guys best friends?”

Thomas chokes on the egg in his mouth. He coughs into his elbow and takes a moment to recover.

 “Not best ,” He says, weak. “Dear Hana, adults do not tend to call each other ‘best’ friends. It’s- very simplistic. Something more for the younger of us, to have these.. Labels. Do you understand?” 

“No,” She replies honest, with bread that sticks out of her mouth. “So you guys aren’t labeled? That’s progressive. What does that mean?” 

“Not labeled as in,” He whispers in a rush to clarify. He feels the top of his head turn red. “As we don’t quantify our friends in rankings. Vincent is very dear to me. Similar to how Aldo and your mum- my darling sister- are in my life. You can see that, yes?”

“Similar,” Hana smiles, the mischief of her mother perfectly passed down. “But not the same. And I hear you call him ‘my dear Vincent’ a lot.” 

He stays quiet for a moment. He wants to bring his hands to his forehead and rip out the wrinkles. 

“Why?” She inquires again, innocent and curious. 

“Lamb. How about we ruminate on the morning silence for just a little longer?” 

Vincent is already up by the time Aldo knocks on his door at 5:01. 

“Thomas went out to breakfast with his niece,” The American offers in explanation at his presence and not their friend’s. “He insisted I come wake you as well as stress that he will be here by no later than 5:15.” 

Vincent suppresses the urge to scrub a palm across his forehead. 

“Of course- he can have the morning to himself.” He insists, knowing that this request would fall on deaf ears to the intended recipient. “He can have the day if he wants to. He needs a break and we can make do without him.” 

Aldo is already shaking his head before he can finish the sentence. “No, no. There is one thing Thomas Lawrence thrives on in this world and it is to be needed by someone.” 

Vincent blanks at the intensity of that statement. After a moment, he decides to store it to analyze later and moves on. He lets the other man in, then shuts the door. 

 “Of course I need him.” It’s such an obvious remark that it spills out of him. “ I only want to make sure our friend is not driving himself to the ground in the meanwhile.” 

“Any song or dance you intend to do,” Bellini informs him in short terms. “I have already tried. It did not work in seminary school. It did not work when he was a parish priest, nor his time in lower bureaucracy. Didn’t help in the time he spent as a bishop, archbishop- never worked as a cardinal.” 

Vincent finds himself unsettled. He is not- jealous- per se of the recounting of the men’s time spent together. But there remains the familiar sentiment, that he would have much liked to witness it. To help out- to be the friend Thomas has been to him. 

Aldo makes himself comfortable in the plush chair closest to the coffee machine. He gives a tired glance to Vincent before he waves his hands. “You need to know- Thomas and the ground are the best of friends.” 

“But surely with family in town,” He tries to point out. “Thomas would find himself needed elsewhere? The child doesn’t even speak the language.” 

Aldo scoffs. “That kid? Decently sure that by the end of this week she’s going to join a Roman street gang.” 

Vincent sighs. “I guess it wouldn’t be out of place with what I’ve heard about the Lawrence extended family,” 

It is an uncharitable musing, and he marks a note to himself to confess it later. But Aldo makes a sound of agreement in the back of his throat. He switches on the espresso machine and over its’ painful rumble, he groans- 

“They’re all nuts. It’s just how it is. And Thomas is on the same frequency, but a lower dose. So appreciate him for what he is, and don’t judge him for what he isn't. And for the love of everything that is holy in the Catholic church, let the man work .” 

Vincent accepts the cup shoved in his direction. He cringes as the espresso machine turns back on for Aldo’s serving.

“I just don’t understand what he plans on doing with Hana all summer.” He admits and thinks to his nieces and nephews in Veracruz. They live structured lives, with school, tutoring, and sports. Yes, there is free time and adventures with friends, but it’s hard to envision complete freedom in the modern day parenting. Even Vincent’s own poverty stricken childhood was well-controlled. He went between school and his father's shop, and played with his sisters. There was never any wildness, and by the time he was even able to consider it, he was sent off to seminary school for a better education than their village. It was hard to imagine then, what straight-line Thomas's world possibly could have resembled. 

Aldo makes a face. “Our friend,” He takes a moment to choose his words as he receives his caffeine. “Has a warped view on normalcy. Especially when it comes to summer plans. We were twenty-three when his kid sister moved in with us-” 

“In seminary school?” He cannot help the interruption. His eyebrows raise to the top of his forehead. 

“Yes. All three of us lived in an NYC one room shoebox. The kid- the mom of this one, actually- took the closet floor. She was twelve, and I have no clue where she was half the time.” 

Vincent remembers this in conversation yesterday, among Hana’s casual remarks. “Was this the summer where their mother joined organized crime?”

Aldo furrows his brow, trying to remember. “Yes,” He confirms and taps the cup in a nervous habit. “And their father got terminal cancer. Hence why their mother got in with the Clerkenwell crime syndicate.” 

“That doesn’t,” Vincent blinks. “Feel like a natural turn of event.” 

Aldo shrugs, as if to say- is anything natural with them? And that marks the end of the conversation. 

Late June 1985 

Both Thomas and Aldo need jobs to keep afloat through their first years in seminary. 

Aldo finds a steady job as a tutor and researcher at his alma mater, St. John’s. He lives the sophisticated academic life, split between ecclesiastical complexities and overtures on classics. 

Thomas, a recent arrival from England on the other hand, has no such connections. So the only place he can find that fits his schedule and supports his priestly endeavors is Limoncello’s Bar. 

When his roommate happily informed him of this new employment, Aldo- native New Yorker he was- had to rewire the inputs and outputs of his brain. Because everyone, and their uncle, and the mailman their mother was fucking knew to stay the hell away from that place. 

“Thomas,” He hissed at the English man. “I need you to understand- that bar is where the mob goes.” 

Thomas kept a straight face. “That’s an offensive way to refer to a common meeting spot of Italian men,” He insisted. 

Just for that, Aldo hit him up the side of the head. “I’m Italian. I lived on this street growing up. Limoncello’s is bad news. They’re only employing you- and happy you’re becoming a priest- because they think they have an in to the church now,” 

“Everyone has an in,” Thomas remained steady at the time of the conversation. “To the body of Christ.” 

Now, Aldo sits in a booth at Limoncello’s- something he’d sworn to Nonna to never do. To be fair, his acquaintance is a twelve year old drawing all over her napkin with a purple pen. They both wait for Thomas to get off his evening shift.

 It’s Four AM and Aldo had just left the library. It occurs to him that he has no idea where Moo-Moo was. Maybe the apartment, maybe doing crime. Who knew? 

He wonders now, if Thomas’s comfortability with mob connections comes from his own eccentric family’s ties. Or, other option- he really is that oblivious to the sordid nature of man. Aldo actually leans towards the second. 

“So, kid,” He tries. Moo Moo looks up at him. “How was your day?” 

“Busy,” Is her one word response.

“With what?” 

She shrugs. Her ink hair is cropped into a sharp bowl cut and her red glasses slip down her wide nose. He can’t imagine that whatever she’s hiding is too nefarious. 

“I actually read a lot of books from the library,” She admits. There indeed is a bag next to her, stuffed to the brim with paper and the like. “Then I walked along the Hudson. Then I walked home. That was nice.” 

“The Hudson-” Aldo pauses. He checks the mental map engrained in his brain and then restarts. “The Hudson, Moo Moo, is on the other side of the city.” 

“Yeah,” She smiles with all her teeth. “The walk was nice, Do-Do Bird.” 

Whatever. Not his kid, not his problem. 

The man they’re both waiting on slides into Aldo’s side of the booth. He reeks of cigarette and beer, something so uncharacteristic of Thomas it’s jarring. He gives the both of them half a grin. 

“Big Papa said I’m good to go for the night,” He declares in his very posh English accent. 

Aldo groans. “Do not say Big Papa again. Ever. He’s in the mob, Thomas.” 

“I don’t believe that,” He insists about the boss that has Bite me tattooed across his knuckles, a cross on his neck, and five golden chains. 

The siblings count the money Thomas has received in tips from this shift. Aldo, in the meanwhile, stares out the window instead of making eye contact with the three burly men dragging someone through the kitchen. 

“22.43,” The kid counts the last of it, then looks up at her brother. “Not bad,” She says in a gentle tone, like she’s talking to a particularly sad dog.

“Not bad,” Thomas repeats, like he needs to believe it himself. “But not good. Still not enough for rent or groceries. We need another source of income.” 

“I’m sure we can ask one of the priests at-” Aldo tries to contributes but he’s waved off by the Lawrences. 

“Maybe I can get something to sell on street corners.” Moo Moo offers and Thomas shakes his head.

“Then we’d have to source the products. Then upcharge them according to market price. Too difficult to coordinate.” He digresses, then adds before anyone thinks that they’re talking about illegal materials. “And who even likes gum that much anyway?” 

“Really,” Aldo tries again. “Thomas, you have a lot of professors who like you at school-”

They ignore him for whatever reason. He stops trying and resolves to just watch their throughout plans. 

“You could try drag,” Moo Moo casually offers. “Just like you did back home when money was tight.” 

Aldo spits out the warm fountain coke and begins to cough violently. 

“Drag isn’t a terrible idea,” His dear friend, the one who blushes when marriage vows are brought up in class, assents. “I know you said you’ve heard of a few underground places for that here. And the payout is big.” 

“We’d just have to get matching outfits,” Moo Moo adds, and Aldo starts coughing again, 

“And a car,” Thomas punctuates the idea, drumming his fingers across the table. Terrible pop music drolls on in the background as Aldo tries to regain a sense of dignity. 

“Drag?!” He wheezes, then coughs into his elbow. “You mean drag car racing?” 

“Yes, Aldo,” Thomas looks over at him, confused. “What else did you think I meant?” 

Chapter Text

Hana, despite Aldo’s certainty, did not end up joining a Rome street gang. 

She does however take it upon herself to form a football team- soccer, she insists. This decision seems to be more of a time commitment than anything the criminal element would demand. 

Vincent and Thomas watch her practice  in the evening, sun stronger in mid-June. The red cleats she found in a bargain bin tear up the grass. 

He does not mind the havoc- this specific area of the gardens is meant only for private use. If the grass’s welfare becomes the complaint of any cardinal passing by, that would only lend to a larger conversation of an expectation of luxury and little else.

Today marks a week since her arrival. It‘s both, Vincent considers, as if no time has passed and that the world has shifted completely.

Thomas smiles more. At him, at his work, and most of all, their young guest. 

Vincent is not jealous of the child. But he worries- even now- what will happen when she returns to being a careless school girl in the United States at the end of the summer. 

Thomas is a different man. His eyes strain less. His facial muscles lose their constant tightness. He has become more prone to amusing remarks- once saved for twice a week now twice hourly. 

It’s precious. Vincent never wants it to end. Which is why he gets anxious as the days pass. Even though it’s months and long days of summer away, he dreads the return of Thomas the machine.

Better for the Curia perhaps- to get that additional file in, to have the manager at the steer and nowhere else. 

But not for Thomas. So, it is not jealousy. But fear. And the realization of complete inadequacy. That Vincent, for all his responsibilities, cannot lend  simple joy to one of the best people he knows.

He comes back to the front of his own mind when Hana yelps. 

His dear guard Georg Michel, it seems, has taken it upon himself to humble the girl with a side tackle. He now juggles the football across his knees, looking almost sheepish. Almost. 

Hana flops on the ground like a slowly dying fish, while he kicks the ball over his head in a rainbow arc. 

“The grass of this papacy,” Georg says, brisk accented English tilting his faux apology. “And its welfare falls under my responsibility.”

“You’re enjoying the football team?” Thomas asks over dinner. It is a scene played out every night, and has become increasingly domestic.

They dine, not in the Curia cafeteria but a private kitchen with a modest counter. They eat food that the pope had taken the time to meal prep each Sunday. Getting bigger portions to serve his ever present guests had been simple enough. The nuns’ contribution was excellent. But for many reasons Vincent was not content to have the sisters around for domestic use. And it’s that last bit of normalcy- of control.

(He dreads this information getting out to the press. It will happen. He can see the headlines- “Young Pope - more like Instagram diet influencer! He’s CROSS- fit!)

“Oh yes. Pietro just has to get his act together and we’ll be fine.” Hana has now finished her own food. She and Vincent have already yelled down Thomas’s offer of sacrificing his own remaining portion. “I already told him- we can’t have a freezer on the field. He needs to strike. Not that his striking is that good. But he has potential, you know?”

 Vincent sits at his friend’s side, poking at tapas with a smile on his face. Their elbows have bumped into each other multiple times throughout the meal. Neither has said anything. He chooses to see it as a comfort - the little presence of “I’m here!”.

How wonderful it is, to be in someone else’s life, for those little irritations to be smoothed over. 

“And everyone is being…” Thomas hesitates on the words. “Kind to you?”

As condescending as that line of questioning may sound, Vincent understands implicitly. 

Hana, through no fault of her own, is incredibly American. Despite her charisma, her Italian is  still quite broken.  Strings of curse words could only get one so far.\

“Yes, everyone is very kind.” Hana insists and sips at her tap water. The ice cubes rattle, calling home her nationality. “You think I’m having a hard time? Anaïs - my new best friend- is French.”

Thomas cannot hide the flash of distaste that colors his expression. “Try not to hold that against her.”

Hana nods, serious. “I do endeavor, Uncle Tommy.” 

It is quiet after supper. Thomas runs off with apologies about one last errand, and freely leaves his niece in Vincent’s presence. He shouldn’t feel so flattered by it but he does. 

Hana, whose middle name could be “Chatter”, has gone silent. She joked until her uncle had left. Then as soon as the door closed shut, she stopped with a far off look in her eye.

He doesn’t inquire, and only busies himself with the dishes. Not even as the young girl folds in, like petals whose sun has abandoned them. 

“I used to dance.” She says finally, into her palms. Her lips press into the meat of her hands, like the admittance is something to be swallowed down.

“Ballet?” He guesses, the only form he knows by name. Visions of his own sisters in thin tutus and slippers come back to him now. 

She nods, the edge of a smile poking out.

“Ballet.” She confirms. Her fingertips curl against her eyebrows. “I was actually pretty okay at it.”

“Okay” in the Lawrence vernacular tends to better match the definition of impeccable. The use of an adverb unsettles him. 

Instead of clarifying, he hums and straightens a milk carton in the open fridge.

“I like soccer.” She looks up at him, as if to confirm the fact. “I do. I can be wild and fun- and myself. But- it’s not the same.”

“There’s no reason to do one and not the other.” He extends a peach to her, picked from the top shelf. She shakes her head, at both the offering and the suggestion.

“Sure,” she scoffs. “But ballet was my life- I worked with the Joffrey School- I got a scholarship. And that’s not me bragging but-“

He shrugs. “You can brag.” If anything, the Lawrences don’t do it enough. 

“Academies from New York. France. Here in Italy. All those places- they wanted me a year ago. They still want me to come and work with them. And I had all these roles- and I liked recitals- and I loved practice. I still wake up with my toes pointed.”

She tells him, in her rushed American way, of all the wonderful things. 

How no one ever expected the strong legged wild eyed girl to have as much grace  as she did. That ballet possessed a certain power, actually, and it was in that fortitude that she excelled. That she tramped along and lifted with the boys, then went  en pointe with the girls. She loves  her ratty sweats, the disgusting toe pads and recital dresses alike. 

That it is the best moment, to look in the mirror after a performance, makeup unsettled and brilliant clothes array- and to know- that is yourself. 

She trails off, hands fallen into her lap. “Yeah, I guess you could say I miss it.”

“What happened?” It’s a natural question. He expects a natural answer. Not the one she gives him.

She smiled at him, eyes in the distance. “My dad died.” Mirth and grief alike return to her tone. “So I’m half Batman, really.

Benjamin “Benji” Burns, Chicago native. Beloved son, brother, father, husband, and teacher. Loved the Cubs and hated bubble gum flavored ice cream.

This is how his obituary starts. In the midnight darkness, the screen blinks and flickers across Vincent’s face.

For all Thomas and Aldo gush and grumble respectively of resemblance between Mi-sook and her daughter, the portrait of Benji is unmistakably Hana. 

Their eyes crinkle in the same places. She has his curly hair and impish grin. Even the freckles pattern is identical. Out of all the places in the universe, the same constellation decided to find a home along the cheeks father and child.

He wonders if gray will start to form in the same place on Hana’s temples, just like the streak that goes across her father’s black ink. If she will have the chance to go completely silver. 

Bubblegum pink ice cream, the testament continues, was too sweet for the man. The smell alone made him gag. But he always kept at least four cartons in the fridge and was dutiful about refilling it. He went as far as to drive across the state when the unique flavor ran out, equipped with a high end cooler, ambition, and an all night drive.

Because his daughter at 5 had mentioned it was her absolute favoritest  and would never want to live without it. 

Vincent scrolls, lump in his throat. He is curious and angry at himself for it. Who is he to know of the quiet sadness of the Lawrences?

Nevertheless, he continues to read. 

Benji met his wife in college after accidentally rushing an Asian sorority and becoming an official member. It does not expand on how this accident occurred. 

It seemed the pair were unstoppable- co-presidents of the Jewish student organization, the Korean Language club, and a medical charity. 

What is also recounted is his failed literature journal with a college friend named Fatima Ahmad. It’s a Palestinian activist whose name Vincent recognizes. They met at the last conference he’d been able to attend, back as a bishop. A quiet woman with a ramrod back and melodic intolerance of excuses. 

The link disturbs him- does Fatima mourn for the loss of this man? Does Thomas? 

And how was Vincent to realize all those years ago, he was only a few connections away from the rest of his life?

Back to the literary journal. Works that focused on bridging two peoples, Benji is quoted, united the audience in a hatred for the “shit poetry.”

“The Holy Land peace efforts of the nineties  could have succeeded had I only come up with more masterpieces, such as the notable rhyming of “waffle” and “falafel”.

Vincent can’t help but laugh- the sound stark into the silence of the night.

He continues to read, guilty. Not only out of his grief for the child staying in Rome , who can no longer dance. But because of his burning wonder. 

Who is lucky enough to marry a Lawrence? To keep them grounded between ambition and sacrifice, that they will not lose themselves in pursuit of silent greatness?

And the answer to that, is a great man. That is who. 

Benjamin Burns- husband, synagogue leader, joker, high-school teacher. Father. 

Vincent hits “return” on his search bar, feeling as if he has intruded quite enough. But before he can close the tab completely, a headline catches his eye.

“Local man killed in gang violence, leaves daughter as only witness.”

If Vincent had considered Thomas to be the lightest he’s ever been with the arrival of his niece, he was in no way prepared for the other end of the scale.

A few days after closing out of the Google tab and mentioning his discovery to no one, a short series of knocks comes to his door. 

It is 10:30 PM, after a dinner he had by himself and will not admit was lonely. 

“Is the pope dead?” He panics, then realizes the absurdity of that statement. Still, he places a hand on his chest- feels his heartbeat- just to check.

He rises from the desk he’d been typing away at- in fact on a YouTube music video comment. All the same, he is a bit bothered by the interruption until he is face to face with his visitor.

“She’s gone.” Thomas’s hand grips against his face, pure white. “Hana hasn’t responded to my calls. She always responds.”

Vincent’s blood runs cold now. He wants to brush off the worry- a 15 year old not returned for her curfew should be of no concern at all. 

But he has lived a long life with other such visitors in the night. And most of those times- the Congo, Mexico, Afghanistan - the young person never did arrive home.

“She always calls back,” Thomas insists and bites into the meat of his hand. “Vincent, do we call the police?”

“Do you have her last location?” The surety of a pastor under siege return. To Thomas’s nod, he rifles through the drawer and pulls out keys he’d had stored since day two of his papacy. “Get Georg. There’s a garage underneath the building. Always good to have an escape plan.” 

Early July 1985

“I don’t need red shoes, Tommy.” Mi-Sook complains.

Along the city street, Aldo walks behind them. He is half bitter of how slow they’re going and in other parts beholden to the moment. 

The Lawrences walk hand in hand. It may have looked strange if the kid wasn’t so small. Maybe from malnutrition in Korea or wherever- he’d read reports on it from the newspaper. 

But she wears a bow in her hair, stands  only to the waist of her brother, and has bandaids carefully pressed against her knees. The Catholic school jumper they’d found her didn’t help.  Aldo had cut off the tag but the blue and white checkered dress was for an eight year old.

“You do, I’ve decided on it.” Thomas says, the cheer in his voice forced. “And I hear Sal’s has a discount. “

“Sal, the Italian leather store.” Aldo interrupts, despite himself. “Is this related to your Limoncello gig?“

Thomas shoots a look at him, mildly annoyed. “Only in that I received enough of a bonus to clean the back storage rooms while Big Papa hosted a get-together.”

“Get-together.” Aldo feels increasingly dizzy as the store came into sight. “Thomas, you have to know Big Papa’s meeting wasn’t a tea party.” 

“Well,” Thomas insists, in complete earnest. “I made tea for them.” 

In a few short steps they had arrived at the bright yellow entrance with a splendid window display. Mi and Aldo exchanged looks, with the same question on how they’d afford this.

“Head in.” Thomas says brightly- a mannerism so unlike him Aldo wants to check for fever. “Tell them exactly what you want- no limits and we’ll be in in a moment.”

Mi-Sook shoots a suspicious look at them before she complies. The tingle of a bell announces her arrival into the store, and the older woman behind the counter immediately looks up.

The door shuts.

“I know you’re judging me, Aldo.” Thomas says. “And do that all you want, but not in front of her.”

“She’s young but she’s not stupid.“Aldo steers through the incoming self deprecation. “You don’t need to do this right now. Use the money for yourself- or save it for something for both you and her. I swear to everything- are you going to buy something for her here, then skip meals to manage rent?”

Thomas stays silent. 

“Thomas!” 

Instead of answering, his friend opens the door with a bright smile. “Hello! We’re here for—“

Mi sits on the bench, trying to fight the excitement over the beautiful Mary Janes in her lap. She looked elated and properly miserable. 

And- Also cannot blame Thomas. He can’t. He doesn’t really like the kid but he knows how much she’s been dreaming of those red shoes. How every drawing in her notebook has tiny red feet sticking on each character. How she looks into store windows for ten seconds too long. 

And now they’re here- a dream come true.

Aldo and Signora Bianchi speak in hushed Italian. She is incredibly apologetic- 45 dollars is the lowest she can go. All of Thomas’s bonus and then some. 

“We’re getting it.” The English man declares. Worry lines form across his forehead when he smiles.

“But we can’t afford it.” Mi-Sook tries to insist- but she can’t take her eyes off her shoes. 

Thomas holds up the allotted amount in his hands as a challenge. Aldo bites his tongue. But he knows- it’s enough for course materials the upcoming semester. 

“That’s strange, I have it all right here.”

“But- but-“ The little drama in this shoe store is playing out, and everything breaks the surface when Mi-Sook tries- “I don’t deserve it.”

“Your father.” Thomas looks at her, incredulous. “Is dying.”

“So is yours!” Mi-Sook insists back. “So is yours! 

“Yes,” Thomas throws his hands up. “And my mother is in the British mafia, my brother a spiritual conman, the other a designated terrorist- and my sister doesn’t even have shoes!”

The three of them walk out of the store, 20 minutes later and 45 dollars poorer. 

Mi-Sook runs ahead, but keeps on looking down. Just to see how her new Mary-Janes look. It’s a simple joy. 

She waits for them at the curb now, and strikes up conversation with three veiled women, very excited to show off the new purchase. Aldo can’t find it within himself to be mad about the absolute lack of fiscal responsibility. 

He turns to his best friend, mouth open ready to say something- 

When he can’t. Because Thomas looks wrecked. And it’s not from the money, or even the strain that the loss of income will cause.

Aldo realizes, for the first time, that Thomas is only 23. And not only is his world crumbling around him, but he is also expected to hold it up. And make everything normal. Or pretend it is anyway.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then finally says - ”for the record- I don’t think that was stupid.”

“Thank you,” His friend says, gruff. “Because it was. Incredibly dumb. But I’d do it again. It’s the least I’d do.”

Mi-Sook waves at them, expectant. She kicks up her feet. The red glints in the late afternoon glow. And Thomas smiles, brilliantly.

And that is how Aldo will always see him, all those years later - young and in the sunlight of New York, with golden hair and an absolute devotion to good. 

But he never mentions it. It’s too personal. Too raw- something to be protected and never talked of. 

The only other person who shares in this memory keeps her worn out leather shoes in the box they came in. She peers at them when she misses her brother. 

Chapter Text

Georg is cautious at the command to follow the Holy Father on whatever whim has taken over this time. 

“Holy Father, I would be inclined to do it,” He insists as they go through the backways of the halls, away from the other guards. “I have my own responsibilities - and authorities to report to.” 

“You can’t keep me here, you know,” Vincent walks on, Thomas only half a pace behind him. “They can’t fire me as pope. And the authority I report to,” He inclines his head and the other men look up. They exchange glances with the realization that the reference is God. “would be quite alright with the mission at hand.” 

“This is your case,” Georg tries again. They’ve begun to descend stairs. Thomas recognizes it as the backway to the parking garage. “Yet, I report to both God and the higher-ups. And to be sure, sir. I am more afraid of the higher-ups.” 

“God did give us free will, did he not, Thomas?” To his Dean of Cardinals’ nod, Vincent turned around the corner. They must have descended four stories by now. “I see it two ways- I would go to the outside anyway, and would prefer if you came along for my safety. If it comforts you to stay here on this unorganized outing-”

“Not at all, Holy Father,” Georg interrupts, barely out of breath. 

“Now that you are coming based on my insistence, you cannot be penalized.” Vincent decrees as they hit the bottom floor. He struggles with the heavy door before the 2 meter twenty-something obliges. “And if you are, I will refuse to do my duties until you’re reinstated.” 

Georg blinks, perhaps in disbelief that he is that important. “As you wish.” 

The car that Vincent managed to keep in storage is in the far corner, under a tarp. Thomas and Georg make quick work of pulling it off. Both of them are taken aback when the vehicle is revealed. 

Vincent waves the keys.  “¿Nos vamos?”

“Forgive me, Vincent.” Thomas stares at the bright yellow monstrosity with no less than ten rosaries along the dashboard. “What is this?” 

“A brother cardinal lent it to me,” The pope admits and slides into the passenger’s seat. “Albeit unknowingly. He left the keys and car in the residence after a long stay, and is unaware of its current status.” 

Onto the next question- “Are you not driving?” 

Vincent looked at him blankly. “I don’t have an Italian driver’s license.” 

“My dear, I believe that is the least of our problems.” Thomas imagines the headlines of a pope pulled over. 

 Vincent blinking sheepishly as light flashes through the windows, having to explain why they were going two miles over the speed limit, and oh by the way, would you like a get-to-heaven-free card? On the house? 

Bringing back indulgences rather than deal with an Italian court seemed like a fair trade. He’d rather risk a schism than go through Rome’s traffic rules.  

“I can drive,” Georg offers. Thomas, coming back to himself, shakes his head. 

“No. If that’s alright, I know the location. And I’m not half  bad myself.” 

The admittance doesn’t relay any of the story. And it won’t until they truly get onto the street and weave through the narrow passage ways will they realize. 

Vincent trusts him enough to toss him the keys through the window. In an embarrassing turn of events, Thomas catches them. Then they slip out of his hand with a clink, and he scrambles to find them on the gravel. It takes him a moment. Damn it- had he only not forgotten his glasses. 

As soon as he slides into the driver’s seat, anxiety high and esteem low, he realizes exactly where this car has come from. The smell of purulent chemical cherries- 

“Tedesco,” He intones. Next to him, Vincent shrugs. 

“A car is a car is a car.” 

“Well,” He adjusts the rearview mirror and checks to make sure the young man behind them is buckled in. Georg is quite cramped. His legs pile over each other like a newborn giraffe who also happens to have a gun. “At least I won’t have to be careful not to scratch it up.” 

He turns the key. The engine roars to life, and he adjusts the gear. Thomas presses the pedal and they’re off. The sound of wheels peeling echoes through the empty garage. 

It altogether would have been a “swag moment,” as Hana would put it, if Thomas didn’t have to break immediately. 

Georg and Vincent yelp as he slams to a stop right besides the shadowy entrance. The obstacle in the way- a black cassock holding onto a spark in the night- stumbles back. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Aldo Bellini’s voice curses. It’s loud enough they can hear through the glass.  “What the hell is a taxi abomination doing here!?” 

Thomas rolled down the window to make eye contact with his best friend of 40 years and presumably counting. One cannot know after you’ve almost run them down. He is about to apologize and explain, when he notices what the spark is. 

“Thomas!?” Aldo’s eyes go wide. Vincent, following his lead, rolls down the window and pokes his head out.

“Is that a cigarette?” The chair of the Holy See asks, disappointed more than anything. And indeed, between the Secretary of State’s fingers is a delicate white tube. 

“Is that Tedesco’s car?! And Georg in the backseat?” Aldo drops the aforementioned sin and stomps it out beneath his feat. Then, under Vincent’s watchful eye, picks it up and puts in a nearby cigarette disposal. 

“Hi, your eminence.” Georg inclines his head. From the rearview mirror, Thomas can tell he’s faint, the poor dear. “Please don’t fire me.” 

“How did you know this was Tedesco’s car?” Vincent wants to know. Their friend scoffs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh please- the license plate is Deus Veult. Who else would it be?” 

The three in the aforementioned car exchanged glances, previously unaware of this fact. “Ah, well.” Vincent finally says. “Deus Veult. Onwards. Are you coming?” 

“Where?” Aldo already pulls at the door, surrendering to his fate. Georg moves over, to accommodate as much as he can- which is not that much at all. The American can only just close the door behind him. 

“We’re finding Hana- she’s missed curfew.” Thomas says in explanation. 

The look on Aldo’s face is as if he was tricked into a death trap. He tries to get out but Vincent already clicked into place the childlock. Still, he pulls at the handle. “For God’s sake, I will become an apostate if you don’t let me out-” 

“You threaten apostasy if someone doesn’t make your espresso quite how you like it,” Thomas reignites the engine, and they slip out of the garage and into the night. “And really, Aldo? Cigarettes? After all your rants on our brother cardinal’s own nicotine habits?” 

“Right now, I would be more inclined to the great California tradition of marijuana. And besides- If you’re going to smoke,” Aldo folds his arms, resigned to his fate. “Do the real thing. Maximize harm- don’t chicken out. Not if you’re un tradizionalista.” 

“That’s not what the catechism says.” Vincent chides. 

Aldo waves the pope off. “Yeah, yeah. What would you know?’ 

They peel through the streets, still cluttered with young people. They’re lucky in one respect- that the yellow car takes enough of the attention, no one pays attention to the passengers inside.

Thomas knows the street they are to show up at- the last place he knew Hana to be. He also knows that Google maps and things of that sort dictated it would be a twenty-eight minute drive. 

He could make it in eleven.

He reverses and steers down a street the wrong way, before he turns into an alley. Then another alley. 

Rome is like a chessboard in his map- a grid he has long mastered. It is incredibly fluid to him to make technically illegal turns before anyone has realized what’s happening. 

A lifetime later, he swerves to a stop sign, when it occurs for him to check on his passengers.

Vincent is breathing through pursed lips, eyes wide and crazed. Georg is in a similar state, mouth agape.

Aldo, on his phone squished in the corner, is incredibly unamused. 

“I’ve let the Guard know our situation and that it was the whim of the Holy Father alone.” He waves off. “They’re not coming, but would like our locations. Which I have provided.”

“Aldo, were you texting the entire time?” Vincent asks, sounding dizzy. Thomas is concerned though he can’t imagine what could have happened on the ride. It wasn’t like his friend to get car sick. “The entire time?”

“Are you referring to Thomas’s driving?” Aldo peers at the others through his glasses. “This is nothing. Nothing compared to the time he got me to an airport that was supposed to be two hours away, but he made it in 39 minutes.”

“38 minutes, 32 seconds,” Thomas corrects and revvs the engine. The two unaccustomed passengers gasp. Aldo returns  to his phone. 

Two minutes later, when Thomas finds a parking spot, all four get out. 

If Vincent didn’t believe in God before- a feat that would be quite impressive, all things considered- he certainly would now.

“You know I can’t tell if you’re good or bad at driving.” Vincent squats down, trying to catch his breath. “Or at least my stomach can’t.”

“He’s not good.” George Michel interrupts, similarly bent over. “He is the patron saint.”  

“It all comes from my drag racing days.” Thomas remarks, off hand. “If anything, in terms of style and refinery, I am completely out of practice.” 

He moves onward, and is unaware of how both other men freeze.

They look to Bellini, who shrugs and chooses not to clarify. 

The institution they’ve ended up at is not far off from a nearby soccer field. This is where, Thomas informs the others with an anxious hand across his face, she last responded two hours before. 

“Did she really come here?” Georg cannot hide his judgement. Thomas spares a glance at him. It does not sound like concern for her welfare. “Of all the bars, here? Il Gallo?” 

The establishment indeed lacks charm. It is stuffed to the brim with young people- tourists and locals alike. The wallpaper flakes off and pop music made by people who do not understand English breaks the sound barrier. Thomas can feel a migraine forming, but pushes through. 

“She is fifteen,” Vincent defends, while ducking his face behind a cap. “We all have bad taste at fifteen.” 

“She’s also missing,” Thomas tries. But no one is paying attention to him.

“Someone needs to tell her of the decent places that do not check age,” Georg scoffs before he straightens his face. “When she is eighteen and we can all find amusement in this.” 

Thomas is not in a laughing mood, and cannot imagine he ever will be. He approaches the bar and its very fed up host.

“Perdono,” He slips into Italian, his British accent rendered clear from his nerves. “Have you seen an American teenager?” 

He deserves the glower leveled at him. “Sorry. She was wearing a Roma Jersey. She has curly hair, she’s Asian. Very freckled.” 

“Does she have an annoyingly high voice and like cheap booze?” The worker leans over, as if secretive. His heart skips a beat. 

He nods, anxious. “Yes- and I’d presume the other part,” 

The worker straightens back up with mean amusement across his face. “That is everyone here, Signore.” 

Vincent, with Georg towering over him, begins to search through the crowd. No one pays any attention to him- plain clothes and dim lighting do wonders. There are only furtive glances when people note his age, but then disinterest when they realize he is not a threat. 

He has a feeling that for all of Hana’s zest, this is not quite her scene. But out of a desire for Thomas’s peace of mind, he peers through the crowd. 

“I don’t think she’s here,” George agrees with his private assumption. The younger man looks comical, head and buttoned suit well above the drunken children. It looks as if he is wading through five year olds. 

“I see a back door,” Vincent spares a glance at Thomas, still anxious and talking to the workers. “That merits a check if she is outside.” 

Georg nods, and stands right besides him as they leave. It’s a maneuver to protect him from the crowd inside, but not from the embarrassment that happens when Vincent flings open the door. 

Immediately, two distinct yelps echo and the door thumps against them, sandwiching them against the wall. 

Young faces jolt out from behind the door and stare at them. There is a bright light just above the exit, and Vincent blinks. Not knowing what else to do, he raises a hand in greeting. 

“Mierda!?” A young man, with unsettled hair and lipstick across his nose. Vincent starts to get an idea of what he has just interrupted. The boy gasps, and with what sounds like a Venezuelan accent, he gushes. “You look just like the pope!” 

He sounds half drunk. His blonde girlfriend- maybe girlfriend? - gapes, pupils wide. 

“You know,” Vincent lets Georg out from behind him and shuts the door to the bar behind him. “I actually get that a lot.” 

The teenagers stare at him still, shocked. 

“Sir,” Georg interrupts the moment, thanks be to the lord. “I see her.” 

“Ah,” Vincent nods. Hana could be following in the footsteps of her Singaporean uncle with dispersion of illegal goods. And he’d still be grateful to her for the out. “Blessing on your union!” 

He cringes as they walk off, when he realizes the reflexive dismissal may not be in line with the Catechism on what a good relation is. But he has to go, and he does wish them the best. 

The young couple watches the old-ass man and his freakishly tall companion walk away down the alley. 

“Do we have to get married?” Jenny asks Santiago, a boy she has just met. “That was Innocent, right? I’ve seen the Instagram edits.” 

He shakes his head, still in disbelief. “I think,” He puts his hands to his face, frantic. “He just married us by saying those words. Oh my God, I can’t be married- but the pope said!?” 

This would be the start of a happy 60 year relationship- and they grow up, from children to tall strong adults to bending grandparents. And no matter what- no one ever believes them when they swear on everything that this happened. 

Hana is with two strangers, negotiating in the back of the alley. This is really just typical with how the night is going. However, she doesn’t have anything to hide, brightening when she sees them. 

Before Vincent knows it, she’s thrown himself into an embrace. “Yo! Dude- Mr. Vincent! Great to see you!” 

Her companions- a wiry man in his twenties and a curly-haired girl her age look tense. Vincent puts a hand on her shoulder, half to return the hug and the other half to get her attention. “What…” 

He cannot finish the inquiry, but she seems to understand. 

“My phone died.” Hanna explains. “ And my portable charger wasn’t working. So I had no way to reach anyone. I was trying to get back- I promise. So Anaïs and I decided to try and buy this guy’s broken vespa.” 

Vincent blinks. “What.” 

“Yeah, he was trying to sell it in the bar because he couldn’t figure out how to fix the motor,” Hana juts a finger back at the man, whose eyes are squinted at the two new arrivals. “And Uncle Tommy gave me a lot of pocket money, so we’ve been trying to bargain with him to sell it to us. But he’s asking for 200 euros- which is such bull. And Anaïs speaks French and a little English. I speak some French, English and crap Italian. And he-” She points to the seller. “Only speaks Italian.” 

“Wait,” Vincent holds up a hand. The migraines that Thomas so often gets is forming behind his own temple. “You mean to tell me you had enough money to consider buying a vespa-” 

“Brisée.” Anaïs interrupts. “Broke,” 

“But not enough that you didn’t try and get a taxi back?” He’s trying to understand this. He really is. “And you didn’t consider trying to call your uncle? Instead- the plan was- you buy a vehicle, that you’d then fix behind a bar in the middle of the night with no mechanical skills, then drive off with your friend into Rome and try to get home. Instead of,” He waves a hand. “Knocking on any taxi in this city and asking them to take you to the Vatican!?” 

Hanna shrugs. She looks down at her feet- the red sneakers she has on. “I thought we’d get more return with this plan. And I don’t know my uncle’s number by heart- I never wanted to scare him. He’s scared enough, Mr. Vincent,” She stares at him, misery clear across her face. “I just want to make him proud.” 

There is a beat of silence. Hana bites into her palm- the nervous tick she shares with Thomas. 

Affection that had slipped into his life so quietly in the Conclave grows loud now. Forgiveness, as is his nature, comes easily to him. But it does not so often ring with fondness. 

He smiles. “Next time, you’ll know what to do.”

“Next time,” Anaïs adds, and waves her hand. “ We will have vespa , so no worry.” 

The Italian young man guffaws, completely lost in this conversation. 

The debate over price is ignited once more. Vincent finds himself protesting in more fluent Italian. “200 euro for a broken vespa? Really?” 

July 1985

He doesn’t know why he’s agreed to do this.

Thomas and the kid explain it as such- they’ve found a car from a kind coworker at Limoncello’s. The price they paid was menial. Just had to clean out the back, get fake license plates, all completely normal statutes.

And besides the many holes along the side - from gunshots, gunshots, Thomas- it is in fine enough condition for racing. 

There was only one element not aligned. In order for the car to drive, they need someone to sit in the back. To offset and balance the weight. The kid can’t do it because she’s not heavy enough, Thomas can’t do it because he’s driving. So won’t you please, Aldo-? 

So he agrees. And now he’s here. All bad decisions. 

They are in the alleyway behind Limoncello’s in the early night hours. Ancient Greek review sits in his lap. For many reasons, it’s hard to pay attention to. 

“Tommy is the best at Drag,” Moo-Moo tells him.  She swings her red Mary-Janes back and forth, eager. “He doesn’t seem it, but he’ll do anything to win.” 

She sits on the hood, a sickly yellow color. Truthfully, the mechanical abomination they managed to come across is a melange of car parts. Red doors, all different shades. Orange tire caps. Lime green accents. 

Aldo thinks of Frankenstein and the monster’s wrongness. He’d never understood Mary Shelley’s point. He always believed there was an inherent goodness to each creation. 

But this fucking car is a blight on God’s earth and straight off the highway to hell. 

Speak of the devil, (and he does mean the devil) Thomas sticks his head out the backdoor. “Not quite.” He says, modest. “I do have a knack for it though.” 

Aldo looks at his friend, who now holds a black paint carton and brush. “You really think,” He asks, the question bordering on hysteria. “That this needs another layer of paint?”

“Oh, hush.” Thomas shrugs off his apron and steps out into the alley. The dying sun reflects off his face, and he looks altogether pleased with himself. “It’s just to paint the name on.” 

Aldo levels him a look. “Which is?”

“Queen!” Moo happily pipes up. 

If Aldo had a drink, like last time, he would’ve spit it out. 

Now, he just sputters. “Queen!?”

“I like queens.” The kid defends. Emotion leaks into her voice. “They’re better than kings.”

“And Mother Mary,” Thomas nods. He considers for a moment. “Though now that I think about it, there may be a double meaning.”

“Oh really?” It’s as if all irony and wit has left his body. Only his ears are left to hear this conversation. “How so?”

Thomas blinks at him, innocent. “Because I’m British, of course.”

Hours later, when the paint dries and Thomas finishes with his shift, all three of them sit in the newly christened Queen.

“Everyone ready?” Thomas adjusts the rear view mirror. “Buckled up?”

The English man has gone far enough to buy seatbelts and install them as a priority action. Aldo privately considers that if God wanted to kill them for this monstrosity, it shouldn’t be intervened with.

He flickers on the flashlight he had brought with him. He’s only agreed to this on the condition that he could do homework in the car. He doesn’t think twice when the engine revved. 

Then they’re off. 

According to Mi-Sook and Thomas, the drive is just around the block. 

But in that moment, he experiences everything.

They enter another plane of reality. It’s a blur but stark. Foggy but the surest thing he’s ever experienced. 

 It is the inspiration for his philosophy. It’s his reason for belief in God. It’s his refusal that a merciful deity would permit this to happen. 

He feels every interaction between his cells. He touches the fabric of the universe. He is at the very start, and then the end. He sees Jesus- the alpha and the omega. The two thrones in heaven. The face of the Father himself.

 And is that Mohammed? How fast do you have to go in order to break through the speed barriers of religion and see Mohammed?

He’s hyperventilating still as Thomas slows to a graceful roll. The car beeps when he hits the break. “How was that?” 

“Not bad.” Mi-Sook is unphased. The only hint of disarray is that her bow flew back into Aldo’s lap. “You need to be tighter around those turns. Lost a few seconds.” 

“Yes,” Thomas adjusts the rosary hanging from the mirror from where it tangled itself into a knot. “I thought that as well.”