Work Text:
There aren’t that many dragons in the Vatican. It’s not entirely that the Church is unwilling to host them, per se, but their logical nature and inherent atheism make it extremely rare for any dragon to develop more than a passing interest in religion, let alone devote their lives to it. At any rate, the only dragons Thomas sees regularly are the handful of lightweights that the Vatican’s licensed as couriers, and those mostly interact with the Poste Vaticane.
So it’s a surprise when he leaves the Apostolic Palace for a quick turn around the gardens and hears a distinctly sibilant voice asking passersby for directions to the office of Thomas Cardinal Lawrence. The dragon’s small size (only about half again as large as a horse), grey scales, and delicate bone structure mark it as probably a hybrid from English Greyling stock, like some of the dragons Thomas had grown up seeing, but its accent sounds more Eastern. Wherever it came from, it’s not wearing any familiar livery, sending alarm bells ringing in Thomas’ head. He better head this off at the pass.
One of the nuns accosted by the dragon points straight at Thomas. “He’s right there,” she says, and the dragon doesn’t even bother thanking her before bounding on over to land right in front of him. Thomas is struck, wildly enough, by the mental image of a seagull finding a dropped chip.
“Thomas Cardinal Lawrence,” the dragon says carefully. “Your presence is requested at the padiglione del Colosseo at your earliest convenience.”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Not today. He does not have time for this today. Maybe come back tomorrow? Or next year? No, maybe he’s overreacting. “By whom?” he asks carefully.
The dragon straightens up, puffing out its chest. “Admiral Temeraire, of course!”
Right, Temeraire, the decorated war hero and erstwhile public servant with a vested interest in Thomas’ family. After his first captain died without issue, Temeraire had taken it upon himself to search out everyone he could find that might in the least bit be related to Admiral William Laurence, and even the misspellings of a bastard son could not save Thomas from the dragon’s attention. “Does it have to be today?” Thomas asks, plaintive. He has so much to do.
The dragon nods sharply. “He told me you’d ask that. He is only stopping for the evening—specifically to see you, may I add—and must be in Beijing within the next two days. He was quite emphatic.”
Thomas sighs. Everything is urgent to a dragon. But as much of a nuisance as Temeraire may be, Thomas still harbours some familial fondness for him. “Very well, thank you, tell him I’ll be there this afternoon,” he says grumpily, waving the courier off and already thinking about all the rescheduling he’ll have to do. His Holiness will probably turn that basset-eyed look on him again when Thomas tells him they’ll have to wait until tomorrow to convene.
(It may or may not have been over a month since the last time they were able to sit down with each other without anyone else present.)
(Until now, that may have been entirely Thomas’ fault.)
“I don’t mean to pry, but—who is this friend in the city you must visit so urgently?” the Holy Father asks when Thomas catches him in a hallway between meetings. “Perhaps there is something I can do to help?”
Curiosity, maybe, but Thomas averts his eyes nonetheless out of guilt. “A dragon,” he clarifies. “He’s only in the country for the evening, but he wanted to check in on me.”
“Check in on—” and then the light of understanding hits Innocent’s eyes. “Thomas! I did not know you had a patron.”
“He’s not a patron,” Thomas grumbles. “He’s just—an oversized nanny.”
Innocent smiles, then, and it’s far less beatific than mischievous. “That is what all draconic patrons are, are they not?” And then he adds, “Please—by all means, you must see him. A dragon is not wisely turned away. If you’d like—if it would make it easier, he is more than welcome to visit you here as well. I’m sure the opportunity to visit the Sistine Chapel would be of interest.”
Thomas shakes his head. “That’s very kind of you, Your Holiness, but I don’t think he’d fit here, to be honest.”
“Nonsense! He’d fit right in. Look, there’s a courier right there,” Innocent points out, waving into the sky.
“No,” and Thomas can’t help but laugh here. “ Literally. We don’t have any space big enough for him. He’s—well, he’s one of the larger heavyweights around.”
As a rule of thumb, Thomas tries not to tell anyone who his familial patron is.
But Innocent lights up, now, like a child taking his first ride, and—oh, who is Thomas kidding? He can’t tear his eyes away from the grin on Vincent’s face. “A heavyweight! One of God’s grandest creations. Thomas, I’d hate to impose, but maybe if the Guards are willing, I could accompany you to visit your patron? Only if you wish, of course—” and it’s like he knows Thomas can’t deny him anything. Not when he looks like that, not when Thomas has heard his plaintive disappointments about never getting to see Rome, never getting to leave the walls of the Vatican without an armed guard and a whole entourage, never getting to just be—
“Very well,” Thomas sighs, but he can’t help but return Vincent’s expression with a smile of his own. “I plan to leave around 2:30. The pavilion he’s staying at is not far.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Vincent delights. “I’ll meet you at St. Peter’s then! Thank you, Thomas,” and he reaches out as if to place a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. The movement is aborted, quickly, but Thomas notices it nonetheless, and it shakes them both back to reality.
“Of course, Your Holiness,” Thomas says, trying to keep his voice steady even as he turns away before he can betray himself.
So that’s how Thomas Lawrence finds himself in plainclothes with the Pope in tow in front of the largest draconic pavilion in all of Rome, Swiss Guard following unobtrusively a few steps behind. “Name and contact?” asks a bored young woman, barely even looking up from her phone.
“Thomas Lawrence,” Thomas says. “Here to see Temeraire. He should be expecting me.” He pretends not to notice Vincent’s sharp intake of breath at the name.
“He’s in the western wing,” the woman says. “Can’t miss him.”
“I am aware,” Thomas says, and then Vincent hurries him off before he can say anything else.
“You did not mention that your patron was Admiral Temeraire,” Vincent hisses as they pass by a few smaller courtyards, some occupied with travelling middleweights or the occasional resting courier.
Thomas raises an eyebrow. “You know about him?”
“He is only the most famous dragon of the 19th century, Thomas,” Vincent says with mock reproach. “Or at least within the western world.”
“And that was two hundred years ago,” Thomas responds. “Look, here we are.”
The western wing of this pavilion tends to be reserved for especially prominent guests such as its current tenant. Shining marble, gilded accents, and fine rugs adorn its columns, while its domed roof soars high enough to accommodate even the largest dragon. Privately, Thomas thinks it’s all really a bit much, but such is the nature of draconic architecture.
In the center of the courtyard lies an extremely large creature of glossy black, sipping at a soup tureen-sized teacup held in talons sheathed with jade and gold filigree and dictating to an aide typing furiously away at a laptop. “No, no, no, that doesn’t sound quite right. How about ‘As per my last missive, I had expected you to reach out to him first’?” The aroma of heavily spiced roast lamb floats through the courtyard, almost making Thomas cough. He’s never quite been able to keep up with the Chinese chefs that Temeraire hires and carts around with him everywhere.
Temeraire’s prodigious senses, however, are clearly enough to scent Thomas through the haze of his cooking dinner. “Thomas!” the dragon booms. To his credit, he doesn’t really have any other volume settings with his lung capacity. “It is good to see you. Come, come. Would you like something to drink? I’m sure Carlotta can get you some tea. The most delightful shipment of pu’erh came into my estate last week and I’m sure there’s some left, enough for a human anyways.” Then, as Vincent edges into view, “Oh, how wonderful, you’ve brought a friend! Oh, dear,” and there’s a vestige of the young dragon Temeraire must have been once as he sets his teacup down with a clatter and tries to arrange himself into a more dignified position, almost knocking Carlotta over with his massive tail as he does so. “You must excuse me, my good sir; Thomas did not inform me that he was bringing a visitor, and I am underdressed!”
“You do not want to see him dressed appropriately,” Thomas mutters under his breath. Temeraire had attended Thomas’ Consistory decades ago, bedecked in all his finery. Two centuries’ worth of prizes and earnings was truly a staggering amount of gold, even for a hundred-foot dragon to wear.
(He had, apparently, been the talk of dragonkind for years.)
“It is good to meet you,” Vincent says, inclining his head. The Pope shouldn’t bow to anyone! Thomas doesn’t say. “I have read much about your exploits, but to see you is magnificent.” Vincent must have been reading up on how to talk to dragons. Flattery is perfect.
“How well-spoken! Thank you,” the dragon responds. “But you have me at a disadvantage, Mr.—?”
An awkward pause.
“Benítez,” Thomas finally says. It feels like an echo of something else. “Vincent Benítez. He is—um, he’s my colleague.”
That little bit of subterfuge really doesn’t do him any favors. Temeraire is, of course, sharp enough to recognize the name immediately, especially given Thomas’ position and their setting. “Oh! The Catholic Pope, of course. You should have mentioned that! Thomas, of course you know I don’t care much for human religion, but to be Pope is something wonderful nevertheless.”
Thomas and Vincent exchange a sidelong glance at this last comment. Neither of them bothers to correct the dragon. Thomas finally says, “Of course, but his work is built on decades of service in the remotest corners of the world. Temeraire, I’m sure you’ll have much to discuss. I hear you’re off to Beijing?”
The easiest way to get a dragon to change topics is to get it to start talking about itself, and Temeraire, as distinguished as he is, is certainly no exception. “Oh, yes! I am off to attend a hatching ceremony. The dragonlets these days are not nearly as accomplished as we were, but Ning assures me that this one has been read to constantly and across all subjects for the past five years, so maybe it will be different—from her, at any rate. There is still a dearth of Celestials in this world, and especially ones with any sense.”
Vincent inquires as to the differences between Celestials and Imperials, a topic Temeraire is always happy to expound on, and they’re off. Somehow they manage to pass an hour in conversation—mostly about Temeraire and his exploits, but Thomas and Vincent still have to be careful not to let any state secrets spill. While Temeraire understands firsthand the need for confidentiality, dragons are nevertheless huge gossips and are physically incapable of whispering, besides. It would not do for all of Europe to learn about the plans Vincent has for his next few years.
Luckily, the dragon seems to be more interested in Vincent’s childhood than anything else. He had been to South America as a very young dragon (during the Napoleonic Wars, and isn’t that something, to talk to someone who had known Wellington firsthand?) but had not returned in some time, and had never been to Mexico either. Vincent’s unable to elaborate entirely to the dragon’s satisfaction, owing both to Temeraire’s boundless curiosity and Vincent’s early entrance into Church service, but Thomas still feels a distant pang of disappointment when one of Vincent’s guard interrupts their conversation.
“Your Holiness, apologies, but we must get back for you to make it in time for the state dinner,” the young man says lowly.
Vincent’s face falls ever so slightly, and Thomas can tell the exact moment when Innocent comes back, draping over Vincent’s personality like a stage curtain. “Thank you, Nico,” he says calmly. Then, turning to Temeraire, he adds, “Forgive me, duty calls. Temeraire, it was lovely to meet you. Please, if you ever need anything, write to me care of Thomas and I will do my best to respond. Thomas—I’ll see you later, I trust.”
Thomas just nods, watching him leave. His mention of later brings the topic of Thomas’ avoidance back to the forefront of his mind again, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. As he disappears from view, Temeraire lowers his giant head right to Thomas’ eye level. In a tone Thomas is sure Temeraire thinks is a whisper, the dragon asks, “Is that your mate? I thought you were not permitted to take a mate!”
“Temeraire.” Thomas doesn’t know what else to say. “He is the Pope. And it’s not permission, I took vows not to take a—vows of celibacy, that is!”
The dragon huffs, sending what remains of Thomas’ hair into disarray. “Humans and their vows,” he grouses. “I will never understand you. First you take vows that tie you to one single mate for life, and then you do it to not mate? He would be good for you.”
Thomas knows that it’s in his best interest to shut the conversation down immediately, but his traitorous tongue instead says, “What makes you say that?”
“He reminds me of a particular friend of my Captain’s,” Temeraire muses, and Thomas knows immediately that he’s speaking of Admiral William Laurence. In all Thomas has learned about the dragon’s past, Temeraire has never claimed any of his other riders as his Captain, not with the audible capitalization and possessive tone. “You know, of course, that Laurence never married. If I had still been in the Service, it would have caused a great to-do for him not to leave any heirs, but as I was in no need of another captain after him it did not greatly matter.”
Thomas stays silent. Temeraire has always been happy to speak of the man that made him who he is, but it had previously always been war-stories and adventure. Nothing like this, nothing—personal.
“But he had a mate, Thomas. I do not like to talk about him, but that is only because Laurence asked me not to. Laurence’s mate was also a dear friend of mine, and I do wish that the history books had not erased the great role he played in everything Laurence did,” Temeraire continues.
This is certainly all news to Thomas, who admittedly had not done much deep research into his illustrious ancestor-of-sorts’ life after the initial shock of being claimed by a dragon. But he doesn’t miss the pronoun. “Who—who was he?” he manages, trying to keep his voice level.
“Tharkay,” Temeraire says. “Tenzing. Nepali, on his mother’s side, but his father was a country squire with a not-inconsiderable estate. As a matter of fact, it was to there that Laurence and I retired to after the defeat of Napoleon, and it still makes up a portion of my lands today. One day—perhaps when you’ve finished with all this religious business—you absolutely must visit.” He preens for a moment at the thought of his holdings (presumably gilt and grander than they ought to be—Thomas shudders at the thought) but quickly sobers.
He tells Thomas of the circuitous life that Tharkay had shared with Admiral Laurence, from their first meeting in Istanbul to their adventures in Australia and the end of Napoleon’s war and beyond, to the house they shared in Scotland in retirement and to the end of their days. Through all this, Temeraire stressed that “Laurence had no idea, of course, but Tharkay was building up every case to be his mate. I confess it took me quite some time to understand—but Tharkay held his memories, that one time Laurence lost all of them, and Laurence always called Tharkay his lodestone. Laurence was often conflicted between his duty to his country or his honor and what he thought would be the right thing to do. Tharkay often helped him see those decisions clearly. Without Tharkay—well, one does not like to think of what would have happened to Laurence without Tharkay. Certainly Laurence would not have. He called Tharkay his compass, and I do not think it was just for his cartographic skills.”
There’s a thread in Temeraire’s voice of sorrow that he might not have been enough for Admiral Laurence on his own, that despite the special bond they naturally shared Laurence still needed another human at the end of the day. But, of course, “it was all human follies, of course, only Tharkay was often far more sensible, and especially so for a human. And when it came to mating—Tharkay had to approach that part on his own, as well, for Laurence was too constrained by his own perceived ideals to even conceive of such a thing. But such happiness it brought them—and me, too, to see my Laurence installed in such a lovely situation.”
Thomas doesn’t really want to hear the connections that Temeraire is trying to make, but he also doesn’t think he would be able to withstand any sleepless nights and long contemplations if the dragon does not spell it out for him. “Yes, yes, but—Temeraire, what does this have to do with—with me and Vincent?”
Temeraire huffs. “Really, Thomas. I would have thought that you of all people would have grasped the similarities. Not a few years ago you had mentioned that you were resigning, and now you are the Pope’s right hand. And he speaks of you as if he could not execute the office without you. I confess I still do not quite understand your faith, but if you were to place it in any person rather than in some deity, I think it would be him.”
His words don’t quite draw the net shut—he would have needed to understand Thomas’ problem with prayer, for one—but Thomas can see the knots anyways. Of course, it’s easy for him to discern when it’s a net he’s woven for himself. Ignoring Temeraire’s subtle digs (they have had enough discussions about religion in the past to know that it is not a particularly productive topic,) he says, “He doesn’t—I don’t—” and stops short.
“Think on it, Thomas,” Temeraire urges. “He would be a good mate. I would not have to worry about your future, for one.”
“My—Temeraire,” Thomas says, outraged, trying not to think about the rest of the implications. “Even if I left the Vatican—even if, God forbid, I left the Church , you would not need to worry about my future.”
“That may be so, but you must agree that being the mate of the Pope has its own particular benefits that are particularly suited for members of my family.” Temeraire says loftily. And then, sniffing the air, he adds, “Pray, would you like to stay for dinner? We are having roast lamb with cumin.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Thomas tries.
“Ridiculous,” Temeraire retorts. “You are not imposing. One more human will barely make a dent in what I’ve had laid in, anyways. You are staying.”
And so the subject is tabled—or Thomas’ part in it, anyways. The lamb is good, if spicy, which is a good-enough excuse not to eat that much, and Temeraire’s continued stories about Tharkay’s adventures with Admiral Laurence make for good conversation, even if they set Thomas’ head spinning. Lodestone, he keeps thinking. Apt. Like—and he won’t even let himself finish that thought.
By the time Temeraire finally lets Thomas go, it’s late enough that he could realistically head home for the evening, even though he would have stayed in his office for hours more had he still been at work. Nevertheless, he finds himself drawn back to the Casa Santa Marta, some half-baked notion that the state dinner (with an assortment of South American heads of state and high-ranking officials, he reminds himself, so naturally of particular interest to the Pope) would have ended hours ago. Maybe Innocent will have time to take that meeting after all.
(He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be running away, scribbling his resignation in such a way that it cannot be denied, finding the first dragon he can to take him anywhere but here—Temeraire would take him to his next stop, at the very least, if not all the way to China—but the idea of leaving Innocent with the wolves still sits uneasily with him, even now. Thomas has a duty to discharge, and if nothing else, he knows his duty.)
(Like the Admiral had, but he had Tenzing Tharkay to help him discern between duty and what was right. Who does Thomas have?)
(God, the answer should be. That is, after all, the driving force behind his entire life. But it is not the answer that he alights upon.)
(Thomas is a compass needle swinging wildly, and the Holy Father—Innocent—Vincent—is true north. He cannot deny it any longer.)
“Just a minute!” the Pope calls when Thomas raps on his apartment door. His heart is pounding fast enough that he should be concerned, as if he had run here from the padiglione full tilt instead of walking at a steady, measured, sensible pace. He places his palm on the door and takes a deep breath.
It’s just his luck that the door opens not a second after Thomas has shifted his weight onto it. With a gasp, he stumbles and almost falls, but something—someone—breaks his fall.
Vincent rights him, then, pulling him into the room, his grip burning like a brand through the heavy wool of Thomas’ cassock and the sweater he wears underneath. In contrast, Vincent’s down to a white undershirt and soft pajama pants, vestments long gone but angelic nonetheless. “Thomas!” he exclaims. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” Thomas says, drawing away reflexively. Vincent’s hands fall to his side. After a few false starts and stutters, he adds, “How was the dinner?”
“Long,” Vincent says, “but I am glad to see you nevertheless. I thought you would have gone home after your visit with Temeraire.”
Thomas looks away, then, unable to meet Vincent’s eyes for fear of his knowing gaze. “He had me to dinner,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “Roast lamb with cumin over rice, and vegetables for the humans. A bit spicy for me, but you would have enjoyed it.” Now that he thinks about it, Thomas does wish Vincent had been able to stay to dinner. Temeraire may be the only member of Thomas’ family that Vincent would ever have occasion to meet, and—it would have been nice, if it had lasted longer. Yet Temeraire had approved of him anyways.
Vincent smiles, soft. “I imagine I would have,” he agrees. “But—it’s late, and you’re still here. Did something happen? Did he bring news, or—”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Thomas hastens to reassure him. “I just—it’s late, my apologies, I know, but I—we haven’t seen each other in some time,” he finishes inanely, as if that’s not his own fault.
To his credit, Vincent does not point that out. “I have some time,” he says instead. “Come, come. Temeraire must have ensured you ate enough, so I will not press you further, but I can make tea.”
“No, no,” Thomas says, shaking his head. This was a bad idea. “You’ve had a long evening—a long day, and I pulled you away from your duties. I—we can speak tomorrow, Your Holiness.”
“Thomas,” Vincent admonishes him, taking Thomas’ hands in his own and squeezing them slightly. Thomas can’t break his gaze. “Yes, I have had a long day. The best part of it, however, was when I got to meet a Celestial dragon and spend time in conversation with my closest friend. Taking time with you is never a burden. It eases mine.”
What is it about this man that has broken down every wall Thomas has built up? Thomas swears that he used to be a lot more stubborn, better at choosing duty over any siren song, but between restoring his faith and making sure that he eats and meeting his family, Vincent has turned him into a completely different man.
This realisation, of course, is nothing new. This is the whole reason why Thomas has been avoiding Vincent for the past month. But there’s no running away from it now, not when Vincent rubs one thumb across the back of Thomas’ (wrinkled, spotted, pallid) hand before gently pulling away for the kitchenette as if Thomas has already agreed to stay.
(Of course he has. It’s only the moments when Thomas doesn’t have the gift of Vincent’s presence when he can even entertain the thought of leaving.)
So Thomas settles down on the old, worn sofa as Vincent makes tea. He wishes he could help—at the very least it would give him something to do with his hands—but opening the cabinets in Vincent’s apartment feels like overstepping, even if Thomas knows where everything is and has taken on the personal responsibility of ensuring that Vincent is always well stocked with whatever he needs.
He stands as soon as Vincent turns back around, though, teapot in one hand and two mismatched mugs dangling from the other. “Here, let me take that,” he says, reaching for the mugs and setting them on the coffee table. Vincent smiles gratefully at him as he grabs a trivet for the teapot. (His smiles are so easy to elicit, but Thomas holds each and every one of them in his heart nevertheless.)
As they sit down, though, Thomas is struck by the feeling that no matter what, this is it. He can’t keep dancing around it forever—not after that conversation with Temeraire, and certainly not after he turned up here so late into the evening. And Vincent has always been perceptive.
“What is troubling you, my dear Thomas?” Vincent asks earnestly, and oh, he is lost.
“Forgive me,” Thomas starts, looking down at his hands. “I—I did not know how to say this. I did not mean to avoid you, these past few days, but I feared for—for my own behaviour, when I was in your presence.”
Vincent tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?” But there’s no confusion in his tone, only gentle encouragement. Maybe he knows already, Thomas thinks, and then, no, he couldn’t. He can’t.
“I think—it seemed to me that I had placed you upon a pedestal,” Thomas starts, groping for the right words. Maybe if he comes at it obliquely, he won’t have to say it out loud. “When you ascended, my troubles with prayer ceased. I found joy in celebrating Mass again, in the work that we are doing. You know all this.”
“But it does not seem to me that anything has changed,” Vincent presses.
“No, not—well, not in reality, but in my mind—” and he really isn’t typically this tongue-tied, and if he had any more presence of mind he would be embarrassed. “Vincent—Father, I examined myself and found myself wanting. After you left, Temeraire told me about—someone he had once known, and the person who he placed all his faith in, and said that it reminded him of me. Of us. It was not God that I had drawn closer to, like we had both thought. It was you. This whole time, it was you.” You are my lodestone, Thomas doesn’t say, and I don’t know if that’s allowed. I would not have allowed it, before.
He expects Vincent to recoil, or at the very least to sit back as he takes in the impact of Thomas’ words and decides what to do with them. He does not expect Vincent to grasp his hands from where they twist uselessly in his lap, but that’s what Vincent does. Turning to face him—and forcing Thomas to angle towards him as well, their knees knocking—Vincent says, “Thomas—here, we are still Vincent and Thomas, yes? My dear Thomas, without you I could not be here. If you were not my right hand, then God would not be able to do his good works through me.”
That is what you are drawn to, Thomas expects to hear at this point.
But Vincent surprises him yet again, as he continues to do. “How could I be anything else other than drawn to you? I understand what you are saying, for I—I feel the same way,” (and this may be the first time Thomas has ever heard him stutter,) “but it does not cause me anxiety. No, no, it gives me joy. Joy, my dear, that we are here, and we are together.” Vincent squeezes Thomas’ hands tightly, here, and Thomas can’t bear to let him go.
(My dear, Vincent had said. Thomas hears the elision like a tolling bell.)
The timer Vincent had set for the tea goes off, then, but neither of them move, unwilling to break the moment. Thomas doesn’t know where this is leading anymore, only that everything he has in the entire world is wrapped up in front of him, and there is nowhere else for him to go that would not pull him back. But he can’t act on what he’s just heard. He is still doubting.
Which, in the end of things, means that it’s up to Vincent to lean forward, then. He places one warm hand on Thomas’ cheek carefully, tilting Thomas’ face up so that their eyes meet. “Please,” Vincent says.
Thomas doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he knows that he cannot deny Vincent. He will never be able to deny Vincent. But he is not a brave man, so he only nods and closes his eyes.
The next thing he feels is a kiss on his forehead, one of benediction that he must have received a thousand times from a hundred different men—even from Vincent himself, and it is comforting in its familiarity, rooting him to the moment.
Then kisses on his eyelids, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. He can feel Vincent trembling slightly, but fear still roots him in place, still as a statue.
“Please, Thomas,” Vincent says again. “May I?”
Thomas shudders, once, feeling every one of Vincent’s breaths on his skin. “Yes.”
And there, sudden, Vincent kisses him on the mouth, close-lipped and chaste, more of a caress than anything else. But as he ghosts away, he takes something with him—the chains binding Thomas’ will, perhaps, or the last of his defenses.
He can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t even know why he’s waited so long. Vincent has been drawing him in this entire time, and now here he is, magnetic. Thomas can’t keep away. He chases after Vincent’s mouth, hungry, grasping, reaching for Vincent’s face, his hair, his shoulders, his waist, and Vincent brings him in, brings him home. Thomas falls into Vincent’s orbit, taking whatever Vincent has to give and devoting everything in return. He is a planet and Vincent is a star, blindingly bright, gravitationally bound. There is nothing in his senses but Vincent, Vincent, Vincent, basic soap and cheap tea and something sweeter underneath it all. Thomas could lose himself here.
When the frantic kisses slowly turn lazy, Vincent asks, “What else did Temeraire say about me?” as he strokes what’s left of Thomas’ hair, Thomas’ head in his lap.
Thomas meets his eyes, warm and sparkling, and melts all over again. “Only that you were my lodestone,” he says, trying to play it off. “My guiding star. My true north.”
“You flatter me,” Vincent replies, smiling. “He cannot have seen all of that. He is only a dragon.”
“Only a dragon!” Thomas repeats. “Do not ever let him hear you say that. But no, you are right—he only said that about Admiral Laurence and his particular friend, but he certainly implied it about us. I filled in the blanks, then.”
Vincent laughs, then, clear and ringing. “Only do remember, my dear, that I am still human. I cannot be your only guiding star—but I am honoured to be one of them.”
Thomas grins, sitting up halfway to hide it in the crook of Vincent’s neck, breathing in deeply simply because he can. “Very well, love,” and the endearment slips out before he can stop it. “In here, you are human.”
“And so are you,” Vincent adds, pulling away briefly to level Thomas with a piercing look. “And you have human needs. So the next time you forget to eat or sleep, I will be here to remind you, and now you must listen, if I am to be your true north.”
“How did I get put on trial here,” Thomas grumbles, but of course there’s no heat in it when Vincent is right here, willing to love and be loved.
(In a few months, Thomas will encounter another courier dragon asking for him. This one will produce a large, flat package from a satchel on its back, “compliments of Admiral Temeraire!” and fly off without waiting for a response.)
(Bemused, Thomas will wave it past the alarmed guards and retreat back into his office. Gifts from dragons are never what they seem, and if the gaudy pectoral cross he received upon his first appointment as bishop was any lesson, they're best kept secret from prying and laughing eyes.)
(By Temeraire’s tastes, the gift will be outright ascetic. It’ll be an oil portrait of two men, framed in nothing more than simple varnished wood. Set in a diaphanous forest, the standing figure is sharply dressed in a military uniform, complete with green coat and almost too many medals to count, blonde hair pulled back slickly. He gazes down on his reclining counterpart, sporting the same shade of green in civilian clothing. Familiar glossy black scales can be seen behind them, as well as the hint of a wing and a lashing tail.)
(The seated figure will look remarkably like Vincent.)