Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Oh, dichosa ventura, salí sin ser notada, estando ya mi casa sosegada

Thomas finds himself alone with the new arrival as soon as he’s been led to the office.  Whether it’s lingering fear that he might indeed have lost instead of gained a cardinal—or some other impulse that he can neither name, nor help under duress—he sets both hands on the man’s shoulders and gently shakes him.  Thomas feels the tremor of waking pass through that slight frame and exhales in sheer relief, but he doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Thomas begins even as his breath dies on his tongue.  He hadn’t been expecting the fine, high cheekbones and scarcely-lined brown skin.  He can’t remember the last time he’d seen a cardinal so young, or at least one to whom age had been this kind.

Vincent Benítez blinks at Thomas with clear, if befuddled dark eyes.  “No, I’m…”  He nearly loses his grasp on the leather satchel in his lap when he realizes Thomas’s hands have kept him from falling off the chair.  “I’m sorry for making such an unorthodox entrance.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to wait,” Thomas insists, because God forbid an Englishman should lose even the faintest sparring match of apologies.  He shifts from a crouch onto his knees, releasing Benítez’s shoulders, offering his hand.  “We had to check the documentation.  I hope you understand.”  Thomas clasps Benítez’s hand as warm, dry fingers press against his palm.  “I’m Cardinal Thomas Lawrence, Dean of the College.”

Benítez adjusts his grip on Thomas’s hand as he shakes it, offering a smile so weary and genuine that Thomas forgets everything else he urgently needs to be doing.  “Cardinal Vincent Benítez, but I’m sure the letter covered that.  You’re most kind to take me in at all.”

“Nonsense,” Thomas replies.  When he tries to extract his hand, Benítez seems oblivious, absently rubbing his thumb over Thomas’s wrist.  “It’s our privilege.  I should say, however—” Thomas clears his throat “—I think you’ve taken a grave risk in coming here.”

Benítez nods, sincere and stubborn.  “It’ll be known that I’m a cardinal since I’ve revealed myself to all of you.  I hesitated about coming, Your Eminence,” he reassures Thomas, finally loosening his grasp, “but I also prayed long and hard before undertaking the journey.”

Thomas squeezes Benítez’s fingers before releasing them; only at the loss of that touch does he realize how much comfort he’s taken in it.  “I give thanks that you’re with us,” he says, using the edge of the desk to steady himself as he gets to his feet.  “That you made it safely here.”

Lowering his eyes almost shyly, Benítez rises and takes a step toward Thomas, hands clasped over his satchel once more.  “Oh, dichosa ventura,” he says self-deprecatingly, his inflection suggesting a razor-thin edge between seriousness and jest, “salí sin ser notada.”

Thomas realizes after a moment that he’s not only hearing Spanish instead of Italian, but that the lyrical phrase has a familiar ring.  “Oh, blessed fortune, I left unnoticed?” he asks, hoping that he’s translated correctly.  “Without question, given where you were traveling from, but I don’t doubt that God’s hand was instrumental in—” Thomas pauses, realizing why he knows that archaic poetry.  “There’s more to that verse, isn’t there?”

Benítez breaks into a smile that’s devoid of weariness this time, delighted.  “Estando ya mi casa sosegada,” he finishes gracefully.  “San Juan de la Cruz.  Here, I should say San Giovanni della Croce…or Saint John of the Cross, if you prefer.  You have a fine ear for poetry.”

“I’m afraid I merely got lucky on this one,” Thomas demurs, but he can’t help smiling right back as Benítez’s eyes, shining so lively now, crinkle at the corners.  “I’ve read the Peers translation.  How did he choose to render it?  Not my blundering ‘blessed fortune,’ no, it was—”

“Oh, happy chance,” Benítez recites.  “I went forth without being observed, my house being now at rest.”  He casts his gaze askance.  “You might also look into a newer translation that’s been done by…”  Benítez frowns and gestures, his frustration oddly charming.  “She’s a singer-songwriter, Canadian, just as likely to record traditional murder ballads as medieval mystics.  I’m so tired that I can’t remember…”

Thomas is hopelessly, hopelessly taken with the knowledge that this stranger from halfway around the globe knows Loreena McKennitt’s music.  And before he can remind Benítez of her name, Aldo opens the office door with a look of sheer exasperation on his face.

“I hate to cut your small-talk short,” Aldo says to a chagrined Benítez, “and I do mean that sincerely given I can’t remember the last time somebody made this old martyr smile like that.”  He gives Thomas an exasperated, what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing look.  “Everyone’s heading to dinner now.  I suggest you escort our new friend in that direction, or it’ll be Tedesco banging down this door. He won’t be as polite.”

Benítez turns pale as Aldo sweeps away, his expression waxing discouraged.  “I shouldn’t have come,” he murmurs.  “I’ve already gotten you in trouble with your colleagues here by inconveniencing you over trivial matters and throwing the evening off schedule.”

Thomas can’t bear to hear the tinge of regret in Benítez’s voice, which had been so delighted moments before.  Before he realizes what he’s doing, he sets a reassuring hand between Benítez’s shoulder blades and ushers him out of the office.  Thomas’s heart stutters in his chest at Benítez’s perceptible, trusting lean into his touch even as they begin to walk at a fast clip after the crowd of cardinals already well ahead of them.

“You’ve done no such thing,” Thomas says quietly, unable to keep a hint of pleased mischief out of his tone over having annoyed Aldo so thoroughly.  “On the contrary, Your Eminence, you’ve unexpectedly salvaged what has been an unpleasant evening for me otherwise.”

“Oh, but surely it hasn’t been as terrible as—”

“McKennitt, by the way.  That’s the singer.”

Benítez tilts his head a fraction closer, conspiratorial.  “It’s a pity our devices have been confiscated for the time that we’re sequestered here.  I would’ve suggested sneaking off to exchange more music recommendations since you’ve demonstrated taste.”

“Dally any longer, and I fear that neither of us will be in anyone’s good graces,” Thomas replies as Ray sweeps past them. “But I would’ve…” He glances furtively at Benítez; for an instant, it’s the thrill of misbehaving at seminary again. “I would’ve liked that.”

“There’s a computer in the office.”

“We’d have to cross Sister Agnes.”

“Ah.  Never mind that idea, then.”

Oh, the things I would’ve liked had we been young men together, Thomas thinks wistfully as they approach the dining room.  I would’ve liked you.

2. Aquesta me guiaba, más cierto que la luz del mediodía, adonde me esperaba

Between the muddy situation with Cardinal Tremblay, the fractious reception of Thomas’s homily, and the first vote having yielded chaotic results, Thomas feels frazzled enough to deliver his preemptive resignation to the whole lot sitting at attention in the Sistine Chapel as if the ballots being called are bingo numbers.  At the end of however long the conclave is stuck there, it’s going to be one of them.

Rather than take the shuttle back to Casa Santa Marta, Thomas takes a walk through the gardens instead.  He’s lost in his thoughts as he starts down the staircase.  Thomas comes close to missing a step when he spots the figure lingering next to the fountain just below him.  He finds his footing as that unfairly beatific face turns up—full of wonder over the creatures paddling through the water.

Benítez points at them in excitement, almost childlike. He doesn’t speak, as if he’s afraid to scare them off.  On a man who Thomas now knows is only about a decade his junior, it’s as impossibly charming as their discussion about poetry and music the night before.

“The Holy Father’s turtles,” Thomas explains, shaking himself out of his disgruntled reverie.  “He was very fond of them.  A gift from Angola.”

“I thought I was imagining them,” Benítez replies, as unabashedly enchanted by the turtles as Thomas is by him.  “I love them.  They’re so clever.”

Clever? Thomas thinks as he descends to join Benítez in watching them for a moment.  Never a day in their lives, but what a spacious heart you must have, to say such a thing about them on such short acquaintance. “Well, here, they keep escaping and being run over.”

Benítez takes a step closer when Thomas finally reaches him, bumping Thomas’s elbow on purpose as they stand side by side.  The contact is companionable, familiar, and makes Thomas want to set a hand between Benítez’s shoulder blades again—or perhaps press his fingertips into the dip of his spine, follow it as far as the red sash at his waist, and finally let his hand settle at the small of his back.  The thought should feel like sacrilege, but instead feels like worship.  Thomas shivers with it, grateful that there’s sufficient evening chill to blame.

“What do you do when you find one that’s escaped?” Benítez asks.  Thomas’s pulse is in his throat as his fellow cardinal takes his arm.

“I’ve never been lucky enough to find one alive,” Thomas says as they walk.  “I imagine it’s in the gardeners’ purview, shepherding the turtles.”

Benítez laughs, sudden and startling.  He covers his mouth with his free hand, apologetic as they begin to cross the courtyard.  “Forgive me.  The mental image of you shepherding turtles is…priceless, if I may say so.  But it’s fitting, I think, given how you shepherd us.”

Thomas stares as Benítez, trying to regain his composure, releases his arm.  “We should go back—the evening curfew,” he says, and then remembers that Ray has given him homework, to suss out the secrets surrounding this man.  “And your health, how are you bearing up?”

“My health is perfect, thank you,” Benítez replies.  He turns his trusting eyes on Thomas, and it makes Thomas feel wretched for having asked the question with an ulterior motive.  Benítez is not naïve.  Thomas has seen the keen wariness with which he’s looked at others.

“I only meant, have you recovered from your journey?” Thomas clarifies, backpedaling so as not to cause offense.  He can’t bear to pursue this interrogation when he wishes that they could take their phones to a secluded cloister and play favorite songs back and forth until dawn.

“I have indeed,” Benítez replies.  The way he regards Thomas suggests that this conversation now hovers at the edge of fragile intimacy.

“Good,” Thomas manages, clearing his throat, and then attempts to change the subject.  “And in the Sistine, you found someone to vote for?”

“Yes,” Benítez admits.  “I voted for you.”  He tilts his head, distressed at Thomas’s expression of shock.  “Forgive me, am I not supposed to say?”

“No, no, it’s not that you…”  Thomas struggles for words; so much for the assumed wisdom of changing the subject.  “No, I’m honored, but…”  He’s lost, and there’s no hope of maintaining any distance with this sincere, disarming, lovely man. “My dear Vincent—may I call you Vincent?  I’m not a serious candidate.  My vocation lies in a different—after the conclave, I hope to resign as Dean, and then leave Rome altogether.”

Vincent looks genuinely sad to hear the news.  “Why?”

“I’ve been experiencing difficulties,” Thomas sighs.

“With your faith?” Vincent presses with startling compassion.  Their elbows brush again, and Thomas knows that it’s no more an accident this time than it was the first.  They are both complicit in whatever has been happening between them for the past twenty-four hours.

“Prayer,” Thomas says, quickening his pace.  “I only mention it to illustrate my point that I am in no way worthy to be Pope.”  Thomas’s weakness gets the better of him.  He takes Vincent’s hand when their knuckles brush, emboldened when Vincent twines their fingers.  “Come.”

It only takes them a few minutes to reach the entrance of Casa Santa Marta.  Thomas releases Vincent’s hand to hold the door for him.  Once they’re both in the lobby, Thomas spots Aldo standing austere and observant off to one side.  He turns away from Vincent, torn.

“I won’t keep you from your friend,” Vincent says warmly.  “Good evening, Cardinal Bellini.”

“I’ll catch up with you at dinner,” Thomas says apologetically, resisting the urge to follow him.

“Oh, Thomas,” Aldo says quietly, pushing away from the wall, watching Vincent walk off.

“Don’t,” Thomas grits out, closing his eyes.  “It’s bad enough that you could tell last night.”

“Nobody here has known you longer than I have,” Aldo sighs.  “You have a type, and that type only has a little to do with looks.  The manner, the bearing…what’s behind the eyes.  Rare, if I’m honest, which is why it’s so glaring when it happens.  That classmate of ours at Allen Hall.”

Thomas shakes his head.  “Eric was a parish priest in Scotland until he died a few years ago.  Too young.  Every now and then, I’d get a letter.  He never did have our wanderlust.  Sometimes, I think he was better off for it, knowing exactly who he was and what he was called to do.”

“Rest his soul.  Never had our ambition, either,” Aldo says with hesitation.  “Speaking of…”

“I feel wretched that my meager tally of votes may have come at your expense,” Thomas says.

“I had no idea you were so ambitious.”

“Oh, that’s a ridiculous thing to say.”

The ensuing conversation is miserable.  Thomas has no idea how to convince Aldo that he truly isn’t in bloodthirsty pursuit of the highest office in Christendom.  By the time they part ways and have an awkward time of avoiding each other en route to the dining room, Thomas has no desire to speak with anyone except for Vincent—except he can’t find Vincent, so he takes a seat alone in an attempt to gather his thoughts.

Someone sets a full plate in front of him.  “Apologies for interrupting your prayer, Cardinal Lawrence,” Sister Agnes says with curious, but circumspect restraint, “but you might wish to take this with you when you go back to the office to check on His Eminence.”

“Which Eminence might I be checking on,” Thomas asks cautiously, finding it tricky not to be curt given his weariness, “and why is he in the office?”

“Cardinal Benítez asked most politely if I had any paracetamol on hand,” Agnes replies.  “I suggested that he eat there until his head improves.”

Thomas rises with his plate and flatware in hand, alarmed.  “Why didn’t you come looking for me the moment he said he was unwell?” he demands.

“A headache is hardly cause to declare an emergency, so I took my time,” Agnes parries.  “Nonetheless, he’ll be grateful for your company.”

Thomas rushes down the aisle between the rows of tables, narrowly missing Goffredo’s approach with whatever bluster he’s been saving up.  He sighs in relief once he’s entered the narrow hall, and through the office window, there’s no light except the glow of the computer monitor—and the way it illuminates the contours of Vincent’s face as he leans on the desk and listens to the swell of strings from the media player.

There’s a computer in the office.

We’d have to cross Sister Agnes.

Their conversation of the evening before echoes in Thomas’s mind as he opens the office door and slips inside.  He fixes Vincent with a look of sheer astonishment as he takes a seat in the spinning chair adjacent to the stationery one Vincent occupies alongside the desk.

“I didn’t have to cross her,” Vincent says, half smiling, so guilelessly mischievous that just looking at him makes Thomas’s chest ache.

Thomas sets his plate on the desk, indulgently sighing.  “My faith was weak,” he concedes, “and I stand corrected.  And your head, is it…?”

“Improving,” Vincent says, neatly tearing his dinner roll.  He offers half of it to Thomas, nodding toward his plate.  “You forgot to get bread.”

Thomas reaches for it.  The moment is as fragile as their conversation earlier, suspended on his held breath.  He’s aware of the music now, a track set on repeat. That fire t’was led me on, the verse resumes, and shone more bright than of the midday sun—to where he waited still.  It was a place where no one else could come. Then the strings again, and then: Oh, night, thou was my guide!  Oh, night more loving than the rising sun—

Thomas shuts out the chorus.  He curls his hand around Vincent’s, and then takes the bread.  “There’s some disagreement here in the translation,” he falters, “if you compare McKennitt to Peers.”  Thomas takes a breath.  “This light guided me more surely than the light of noonday to the place where he, well I knew who, was awaiting me—” and, oh, it’s worse, it’s worse than acknowledging the chorus “—a place where none appeared.”

“We can settle this,” Vincent says, smiling patiently while Thomas occupies himself with a few bites of bread.  “The stanza is clearer in Spanish.  Aquesta me guiaba, más cierto que la luz del mediodía, adonde me esperaba, quien yo bien me sabía, en parte donde nadie parecía.”

Thomas realizes what he’d ask of this man if it were thirty years ago and they were students at Allen Hall together, or even at Seminario Conciliar, with their books spread on an isolated library table well past midnight.  He’d ask him to read the entirety of La Noche Oscura del Alma—The Dark Night of the Soul—aloud in Spanish and in English, as many different translations as he could possibly find, never mind the cost to his heart.

“And you would translate that…how, Vincent?” Thomas asks, his throat dry as he swallows the last of this most holy and unexpected communion.

“More certain than the light of midday,” Vincent says.  “The only part I would change.  More certain than the light, because so few things are.  Sí.”

Was that ‘if,’ Thomas wonders, picking up his fork with intent to eat in silence for the remainder of the song as Vincent does the same, or ‘yes’?

3. En mi pecho florido, que entero para él sólo se guardaba, allí quedó dormido

With three more rounds of voting down and Cardinal Adeyemi out of the runnings, Thomas has only continued to pick up votes even as Aldo loses them.  It’s enough to drive both him and his colleagues to distraction, as if he didn’t already have enough of that.  Where Vincent is concerned, Thomas knows that he has only himself to blame.  His life has felt so devoid of direction, so stripped of hope for years, and now—

Thomas steels himself and knocks on Vincent’s door.

“It’s open,” Vincent calls kindly from within.  “Come.”

That easy greeting makes Thomas’s errand feel worse.  He steps into Vincent’s room to find the lights turned out, the space aglow with candles.

Vincent sits on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes and socks.  He gestures at the chair next to the bed.  “Please sit.  Is something wrong?”

“The other night, you were kind enough to say that you had voted for me,” Thomas replies, getting straight to the point as Vincent continues what he’s been doing.  “Now, I don’t know if you’ve continued to do so, but if you have, then I must repeat my plea for you to stop.”

“Why?” Vincent asks, genuinely perplexed.

“Well, firstly, I lack the spiritual depth to be Pope,” Thomas says.  Even though he means it, he can tell there’s no convincing his audience.  “Secondly, I couldn’t possibly win.  A long, drawn-out conclave would be seen by the media as proof that the Church is in crisis.”

“You have come to ask me to vote for Cardinal Tremblay?”

“Yes, I have, and to urge your supporters to do the same.”

“Cardinal Tremblay already spoke to me about this,” Vincent says.

Thomas sighs in distaste.  “Oh, well, I’m sure he has,” he replies.

“You want me to vote for a man you see as ambitious?” Vincent asks.

“I do not want to see Tedesco as Pope,” Thomas says, reaching out to Vincent in supplication.  “He would take our Church back to an earlier era.”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot vote for a man unless I think him the most worthy to be Pope,” Vincent says.  “And for me, that is not Tremblay.  It’s you.”

“I don’t want your vote!” Thomas shouts, but he finds it’s agony to utter each word.  It feels as if he might as well be saying, I don’t want you!

“Nevertheless,” Vincent says with the same depth of sincerity as always, “you have it.”  He rises from the bed, leans past Thomas, and blows out a few candles.  “I’m sorry if that disappoints you, Thomas.  You can stay if you like, but…I’m tired.  I’m going to rest for a while.”

“That makes two of us,” Thomas sighs, rubbing his forehead as he gets to his feet.  “I had no right, coming here and asking this of you.  Every cardinal must vote his conscience, and…”  He turns, astonished, as Vincent catches his wrist to prevent his exit.  “Vincent?”

“Then rest with me,” Vincent says softly, his eyes reflecting the few remaining flames.

Thomas doesn’t attempt to pull away.  He understands as surely as Aldo does that this is a struggle to which he’s already surrendered, if he’d even considered it a struggle in the first place.  Why would he have done, with these eyes gazing up at him, these arms waiting to hold him?  Thomas sinks on the mattress next to Vincent, removes his own shoes, and then lets Vincent guide him to lie down.  They fold against one another as if they’ve never been apart, with Thomas on his back and Vincent sprawled over him, his head tucked under Thomas’s chin.

“Did you do this on purpose?” Thomas murmurs, running his fingers through the softness of  Vincent’s hair.  “Oh, forgive me, forgive me.  Of course you didn’t.”  He presses a kiss against the top of Vincent’s head, his eyes closing as his fingertips find the dip of Vincent’s spine.

“I quoted the poem to comfort myself,” Vincent murmurs back.  “To thank God I had safely fled my house under the cover of night to meet Him here, but who did I meet instead?”  His lips move against Thomas’s neck as he speaks, a prayer.  “I opened my eyes, and it was you.”

“I haven’t felt the presence of God since His Holiness,” Thomas falters, bringing his hand to rest at the small of Vincent’s back.  “Not until you,” he continues, tearful, “and never as fully, not in all my days.  Hear my confession now, selfish though it is—you have been God’s gift to me.”

Without any warning, Vincent lifts his head and kisses Thomas.  Passion without profanity is a rare and precious thing, and somehow, they’ve reached that pitch without lust getting the better of them.  Thomas does want Vincent—oh, he wants—but in this moment, it’s unquestionably secondary to this sheer outpouring of devotion.  He pulls Vincent tightly against himself—one hand still at the small of his back, the other at the crown of his head.  The awed, breathless sound that Vincent makes as they break the kiss falls on the silence like a blessing.

“If it be His will, then I won’t return to Kabul,” Vincent whispers.  “I’ll vote for you again, Thomas.  And again, and again until it is so.  And I’ll serve you all my days.”  He kisses Thomas again, chaste this time, blinking down at him.  “What name will you choose then?”

Thomas cups Vincent’s cheek, overwhelmed.  “My dear, I don’t…I haven’t even…”

“En mi pecho florido, que entero para él sólo se guardaba, allí quedó dormido,” Vincent recites, kissing Thomas’s forehead, and then each eye in turn, and then his mouth.  “John of the Cross,” he says with a tender hope that Thomas dares not feel himself.  “John, my Beloved.”

“Before the world, if it comes to it,” Thomas agrees, “but Thomas to you, always.”

“I know that you have work to do,” Vincent says, stroking Thomas’s cheek with reverence.  He lifts his hand and sets it on Thomas’s arm, stroking down to his wrist, dipping careful fingers just beneath the cuff of his sleeve, his eyes questioning.  “That your night will be long.”

Thomas exhales shakily, lifting his head just enough from the pillow to meet Vincent’s lips in another kiss.  “I wouldn’t take you from your rest,” he says, clasping Vincent’s hand, “and I wouldn’t take anything from you, anything, that you cannot give without regret.”

“What did Cardinal Bellini call you the other night?” Vincent asks thoughtfully, with sudden, fond laughter in his voice.  “A martyr?”  He squeezes Thomas’s hand before releasing it, bringing his own to rest on Thomas’s thigh with yet a second question in his eyes.

“Yes,” Thomas whispers, and it’s an answer to both of the things he’s being asked.

“Don’t be one,” Vincent whispers back, dragging his hand to Thomas’s belt.

“But—Vincent, but you—”

“I have no regrets, Thomas.”

Thomas can’t breathe as Vincent unbuckles him.  The action is clumsy and unpracticed, which tells him everything he needs to know about Vincent’s level of experience in comparison to his own: just as negligible, maybe even non-existent.  He’s grateful when Vincent kisses him again, sparing him the indignity of sobbing aloud when Vincent slides his warm hand inside his trousers and his underthings, finding his bare skin.

“Shhh, shhh,” Vincent soothes against Thomas’s lips, moving against him in gentle encouragement.  “Oh, noche que juntaste amado con amada,” he whispers in Thomas’s ear, working his cock with firm, but tender strokes, “amada en el amado transformada.”

Oh, night that joins the lover to the beloved one—transforming each of them into the other.

Thomas comes with the force of Vincent’s words, a full-body spasm.  He makes no attempt to do anything other than welcome it; at his age, he’d be a fool to deny himself.  He holds an equally trembling, gasping Vincent as close as the fabric layers between them allow, pressing both hands at the small of his back, coaxing him toward his pleasure, too, even as the part of the song that he’d so willfully shut out floods his mind.

The lines are one and the same—original and translation, intention and interpretation impossibly blurred.  When Vincent comes, he’s so quiet that it breaks Thomas’s heart.  But he shakes so violently that Thomas believes their world is about to change, and that there is no sign or portent more wondrous than the one in his arms.  Monstrum, early Latin texts would’ve called the arrival of a stranger, but Thomas sees a miracle.

“I caressed him,” Thomas whispers, cradling Vincent, “and the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.”

Vincent makes a sleepy, endearing sound in the curve of Thomas’s neck.  “Peers is dull,” he yawns, snuggling closer.  “How does McKennitt’s go?  He fell into his sleep; beneath the cedars, all my love I gave.  Allí quedó dormido, y yo le regalaba, y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.”

“Peers is more literal, though.”

“Fine.  Then I prefer the song.”

Thomas rolls Vincent onto his back against the pillows, kissing him soft and slow.  He strokes his face and his hair until he’s asleep, feeling slightly guilty about leaving him in…well, whatever state he’s in beneath his clothes.  Thomas cleans up as best he can in Vincent’s bathroom before taking another lingering look at his lover on his way out the door.  He has much to do before dawn, and he’s not looking forward to any of it.

Still, Thomas has no regrets, either.

4. Quedéme y olvidéme, el rostro recliné sobre el amado, cesó todo y déjeme

The explosion is closer this time.  Beneath a jagged rain of centuries-old paint, plaster, masonry, and glass, Thomas falls to the floor.  In the seconds he’s unable to breathe, he wonders if he’s been struck down not only for the sin of pride, but for having believed that devotion could supersede the basest sin of all.  Strangely, though, Thomas remains defiant.  He’ll pitch headlong into Hell if it means Vincent yet lives to atone.

“Thomas!” Vincent gasps, his hands on Thomas’s shoulders.  “Thomas!”

“Easy, just keep him there a second,” Aldo says somewhere off to the side.

“Oh, Thomas,” Vincent whispers tearfully, his arms around Thomas now.

“I’m all right,” Thomas manages, holding him in kind.  “Vincent.  Shhh.”

Goffredo has already launched into some English-and-Italian invective that has Aldo spitting nails in response.  From the sound of it, he’s mostly raving about the parties he imagines to be responsible for this affront, but there are a few choice phrases in the midst of it about cozying up to nobody-from-nowhere foreigners in order to win votes.  Thomas wants to give Goffredo a piece of his mind, but it’s not worth the effort.

Vincent rocks back on his heels, loosening his hold.  “You’re hurt, Eminence,” he says with concern, indicating a stinging spot on Thomas’s forehead.  “Bleeding in a few places,” he continues, glancing around the room as he gets to his feet.  “I will find someone.”

“So are you,” Thomas points out, having spotted a trace of blood along Vincent’s hairline, but Vincent is already striding off toward the entrance to the chapel, determined.  And why shouldn’t he?  This is nothing in comparison to the war zones in which he’s served for decades.

Aldo finally gets Goffredo to shut up.  He crouches next to Thomas.  “The way I see it, you’ll have to make Benítez either Dean of the College or Secretary of State.  There’s no way we can safely send him back to Kabul, and…”  He exhales, furious.  “And any other role would be at too much of a remove from you. The time that I imagine you’ll be spending together will start to look really fucking weird if he’s not part of the household, so how about we mitigate the damage by making the two of you living in each other’s cassocks make sense.”

Thomas covers his face.  “Aldo, we still don’t even know that I can win this.”

“Please just let me know which role he’s going to get so I can take the other.”

“You can have Secretary.  I’m sorry that I insulted that very notion last night.”

“Here comes your Dean-to-Be with first aid.  Efficient.  Let’s talk more later.”

Thomas lets Aldo help him to his feet even as Vincent leads Ray, bearing a first aid kit, to where he’s standing.  Even as officials are clearing everyone else out, Vincent won’t let Thomas do anything until his cuts have been cleaned and tended.  Even after that, it takes an incredible effort on Thomas’s part to persuade him onto the shuttle back to Casa Santa Marta while Thomas stays behind to deal with the aftermath.

“Benítez would be exceptionally loyal to you,” Ray comments once the shuttle is gone.  “An asset.  Have you thought about keeping him?”

“I have thought about it,” Thomas admits readily.  “In the event that the final vote should turn…”  He nods.  “Yes, he would remain close to me.”

Breaking the news to the remainder of the cardinals on their return to Casa Santa Marta is a nightmare, but Thomas does his duty.  Goffredo seizes the opportunity to spout more bigoted vitriol in front of everyone, which Thomas decides he simply cannot let stand.

However, before Thomas can speak, Vincent does.  And his brilliant, compassionate friend—both lover and beloved one, these bonds in body and spirit so new and fragile—changes the course of their future in mere minutes of humble and humbling declamation.

Thomas has been voting for the wrong cardinals, and his final vote doesn’t go astray.  When he approaches Vincent to ask if he accepts his newly-appointed duty, he wants nothing so much as to take Vincent in his arms as he had the night before.  However, when Thomas asks what name Vincent wishes to take, Innocentius falls on his ears with just enough irony bound up in its fitting ring that he struggles not to betray his mirth.

Not long after Vincent is swept away in a tide of congratulations, Ray finds Thomas and makes his revelation.  Of all the signs and portents in his path, Thomas had indeed already borne witness to the most cataclysmic of all.  He just hadn’t known what he was seeing.

“Eminence,” hisses an attendant, furtively, when Thomas knocks on the door to the Room of Tears, “His Holiness refuses to get robed.”

“Excuse me,” Thomas says, his world tilting off its axis as he finds Vincent sitting alone on the far side of the room.  “May I speak to you alone?”

“Of course,” Vincent says numbly, waiting until the attendants have left to rise and hesitantly approach Thomas.  “I was waiting for you to come.”

Thomas wishes that he could feel anger.  It would be so much easier to untangle than this knot of fear and wonder that has formed in his chest.  He gathers Vincent in his arms, shaking.  “You must tell me about this treatment at the clinic in Geneva,” Thomas says haltingly.

“Must I?” Vincent asks against his shoulder, and then sighs.

“Yes,” Thomas says as gently as he can manage.  “You must.”

“I suppose that after…”  Vincent takes a step back.  “There is another reason,” he says quietly.  “Because of what is between us, too.”

“I’m not unaware where such differences are concerned,” Thomas says, drawing Vincent back into his arms.  “The reason you’re thinking of, what’s between us?  That’s the farthest from my mind.”  He presses a chaste kiss to Vincent’s forehead.  “My concern is for what’s out there.  Outside these walls.  Do you hear it?  Within the hour you will be the most famous man in the world, so please tell me…what is your situation?”

“My situation, as you put it, is the same as when I was ordained a priest…and when I was made a cardinal,” Vincent says patiently, tilting his head.

“But the treatment in Geneva?” Thomas presses patiently.  “Vincent, please understand—if I do not know, then I cannot do anything to protect you.”

“There was no treatment,” Vincent replies, clasping Thomas’s hands reassuringly.  “I considered it, I prayed for guidance, and decided against it.”

“But what would it have been, this treatment?”

“It was called a laparoscopic hysterectomy.”

Thomas takes a moment to process.  He stares down at Vincent’s hands, running his thumbs over the bones of his wrists.  Thomas’s mother had been a nurse; he’d seen case studies in her outdated textbooks.  History has never been kind to those with intersex variations.

Vincent takes a breath.  “You have to understand…when I was a child, there was no way of knowing my situation was more complicated.  And life in the seminary is, as you know, a very modest one.  The truth is, there simply was no reason to think I was physically different from the other young men.  Then, in my late thirties, I had surgery to remove my appendix.  And that was when the doctors discovered that I had a uterus and ovaries.”

Thomas finally looks up at him again.  “While I’m grateful that you weren’t subjected to the trauma that so many in your situation have been,” he says, unable to prevent tears from running down his cheeks, “you know that there are those within the Church who’ll say…”

“Some would say my chromosomes define me as being a woman.  And yet, I’m also as you see me.  It was a very dark time.  I felt as if my entire life as a priest had been lived in a state of sin. Of course, I offered my resignation to the Holy Father.  I flew to Rome and I told him everything.”

“He knew?” Thomas asks, some long-held bitterness inside him crumbling and falling away.

“Yes, he knew,” Vincent replies, wiping Thomas’s tears away with the cuffs of his sleeves.

“And he thought it acceptable for you to continue as an ordained minister.”

“We considered surgery to remove the female parts of my body, but the night before I was due to fly, I realized I was mistaken.  I was who I had always been.  It seemed to me more of a sin to change His handiwork than to leave my body as it was.”

“So, you are still...” Thomas presses their foreheads together.  “I can’t imagine not seeing you…as you were last night.  Just as you are.”

“I am what God made me,” Vincent replies, kissing him softly.  “And you are what God made you.  I wouldn’t wish you to be any different.”

“I don’t know about that,” Thomas says self-deprecatingly.  “You should wish for me to be more useful.  I’m the one who’ll serve you.”

“Perhaps my difference will make me more useful. I think again of your sermon. I know what it is to exist between the world’s certainties.”

“If I don’t get you dressed,” Thomas says, wiping fresh tears from his eyes, “and get on with making the announcement?  There will be grief.”

“No grief, then,” Vincent replies.  “It must not be considered out of hand for the continuing Dean to dress the Holy Father.  That is, only if…”

“Whither thou goest,” Thomas vows.  “But you’d better let Aldo be Secretary, or you’ll never hear the end of it.  Tedesco will grouse anyway.”

The day’s remaining ceremonies would’ve been grueling enough without rounds of voting and the explosion that had come before.  Still, Vincent holds his own throughout the progression, from greeting and embracing each individual cardinal in turn to making his first brief appearance before a crowd of thousands.  If anyone finds it amiss that Thomas doesn’t leave Vincent’s side—not counting Goffredo, because he’s made it known that he finds everything amiss—then they keep their mouth shut.  By nightfall, Ray is as white as Vincent’s vestments.

“If you have something else to say,” Thomas warns as Ray waylays him before dinner, “then I’m afraid that the time to say it was hours ago.”

“Your Eminence,” Ray says, resigned, “I don’t doubt your decision, nor the Holy Father’s.  But nothing like this can remain hidden forever.”

Thomas inclines his head, and then glances over his shoulder to where Vincent stands waiting.  “Then we shall do what we can in the days we have,” he says steadily, “whether it’s thirty days, or three hundred, or three thousand.  His Holiness will remain for as long as God intends.”

“And if Goffredo and his cronies dig the info up in three?” Ray asks.  “What then?”

Vincent, who has been listening, walks over and sets a steadying hand on Ray’s arm.  “Then the process begins again, and you will aid Cardinal Bellini in the conclave’s proceedings instead.”  He smiles reassuringly.  “Please don’t be troubled.  Come and eat with us.”

Thomas watches the color return to Ray’s cheeks.  Truly, there’s no greater miracle Vincent could perform on his first day in office than mollifying the old fussbudget, so they’re already off to a far, far better start than the previous administration.

Dinner passes without incident.  Near the end of their meal, Vincent leans over and quietly asks Thomas if the matter of his residential preference will be respected.  Given that the previous Pope had insisted on remaining at Casa Santa Marta rather than relocating to the Apostolic Palace, Thomas reassures Vincent that he won’t be going anywhere except to the previous Holy Father’s now vacant suite.  That only calms him in part.

Vincent hesitates for a moment.  “They’ll move you from the Palace of the Holy Office?”

Thomas gives him a reassuring look.  “My rooms will be as close to yours as I can manage.”

Ray clears his throat.  “I’m to tell you that Sister Agnes has informed the Swiss Guards on duty this evening that Dean Lawrence will be helping you to settle in, Your Holiness.  The sisters have been instructed not to move your possessions from your temporary accommodations, seeing as there are not many.  She knows that His Eminence would prefer to assist you with the move to your permanent accommodations himself.”

Turning in his chair, Thomas catches sight of Agnes in the back corner of the room.  He stares at her, both uncomprehending and fiercely grateful.  She inclines her head, unclasping her hands in front of her just long enough to make a run-along gesture.  Thomas suspects that he’ll never know the full extent of what a valuable ally Vincent has won through the simple act of including the sisters in his prayer on the evening he’d arrived.

“Good night, Holy Father,” Ray says, rising from the table.  “Your Eminence.”

Vincent watches Ray leave the room, and then looks at Thomas.  “Is that…it?”

“If you’re tired, Holiness,” Thomas replies, setting down his napkin, “then yes.  You have no further obligations this evening, and none tomorrow, although that…will change in short order the day after.  It would be in your best interests to get as much rest as you can.”

Vincent finishes his coffee.  “I’d be grateful for your help with moving my things now.”

“There’s nothing I’d more gladly do,” Thomas says with feeling, suddenly out of his depth.

The punch-line is that it only takes one trip between the two of them to carry Vincent’s briefcase, toiletries, and armful of plainclothes from his guest room to the suite he’ll call home.  He’d insisted on being stripped of his vestments before dinner, so the two of them are dressed in black with little more than white collars and crucifixes to mark them as clergy.  They don’t speak as they put Vincent’s clothes away.

The freshly-made bed across from the armoire is brand-new, having been delivered with haste earlier that evening.  It’s a relief to realize that Vincent will not be sleeping where someone has died.  Thomas watches Vincent sit down on the edge of the mattress, testing its give.

“Better than the one in the guest room,” Vincent says with an optimistic smile.  He begins to remove his shoes, the action familiar and businesslike, and then pats the duvet beside him before he continues his task.  “I don’t know how easy it will be to arrange chances like this.”

“Not as easy as we’d like,” Thomas admits, removing his shoes, too.  “But not impossible, either.  You’re not made of stone. The office allows for that.  You have holiday time.  Occasional days like tomorrow where your schedule is clear.  It may be a calling, but it’s also a job.”

Vincent waits until Thomas has finished with his shoes to remove his collar and crucifix for him.  He sets them on the nightstand with care, and then holds still as Thomas does the same for him.  Vincent’s breathing grows high and shallow as Thomas’s touch lingers at his throat.

“This is not easy,” Vincent says with quiet resolve, “but I wish for you to know me.”

Thomas skims his fingertips from Vincent’s throat up to his cheek and kisses him.

“I want only what you can give without regret,” he murmurs.  “Remember that.”

“I told you I don’t have any,” Vincent reminds him with a maddening smile.

The fairest thing that Thomas can do is let Vincent undress him in a room that’s lit with more than just a scattering of candles.  Shrugging out of his shirt isn’t as daunting as he would’ve expected.  When Vincent leans forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss against his collarbone, his breath catches.  Vincent doesn’t waste time, urging Thomas to stand so that he can unbuckle his belt.

“There,” Vincent says, tugging Thomas’s bottom layers down. He steadies Thomas while he steps out of them, one hand sliding around to brace against the small of his back. “There you are,” he whispers, nuzzling and kissing Thomas’s belly first.  It tickles, drawing a huff of startled laughter from him.  “Mmm, te sientes…”  Vincent’s hand is as tender on him as the night before, working him until he’s hard.

Thomas clutches at Vincent’s shoulders when he feels the first tentative swipe of Vincent’s tongue.  “Vincent,” he gasps.  “Oh, my dear, I…”

“Shouldn’t be able to form words?” Vincent suggests, glancing up with one of those smiles that crinkles his eyes.  “I’m doing this wrong.”

“Wait a minute,” Thomas replies, grasping Vincent’s hands against his hips.  He gets down on his knees in front of Vincent even though his joints complain, and then takes Vincent’s face in both hands.  Thomas kisses him, slow and worshipful, pleased at how urgently Vincent whimpers into his mouth.  “I don’t want this to be over just yet,” Thomas whispers, breathing warmly against Vincent’s ear.  “Let me see you.”

Vincent fumbles at the buttons of his shirt, frantic.  “This is the worst time to have unsteady hands when I’m nervous,” he mutters, breathing hard as Thomas grasps his wrists, kisses the back of one hand after the other, and then does the job for him.  “You see, it’s…I’m not…”

Thomas parts the fabric, running his hands over Vincent’s flat chest.  He presses a kiss against Vincent’s breastbone, circling his thumbs over Vincent’s nipples.  Vincent cries out, a phrase that Thomas can’t understand.  “You’re as God made you,” Thomas tells him.  “Beautiful.”

“Please,” Vincent gasps desperately, guiding both of Thomas’s hands to his hips.  “Please.”

Thomas unfastens Vincent’s trousers with hands no steadier than Vincent’s had been.  He helps Vincent squirm out of them, tugs his underwear off at the same time, and then lays him down.  Thomas feels the heat of Vincent’s skin, but his first thought isn’t to look.  He works one arm beneath Vincent’s shoulders and hooks the other beneath Vincent’s knee, pulling them flush.  They’re both shaking.

“What do you need?” Vincent rasps even though he’s the one writhing and panting harshly.

“I need to know how to touch you,” Thomas says, “to make you feel like you did last night.”

“Lift up,” Vincent replies with some difficulty, nudging Thomas’s shoulders.  “Here, let me…”

Thomas kneels between Vincent’s splayed thighs as Vincent guides Thomas’s hand to wrap around him.  He understands how it would’ve been tricky to tell at a glance that anything about Vincent was all that different.  Sparse, dark curls around the jut of his small, slender cock.  No testes in the mounds of flesh beneath, so yielding to the brush of Thomas’s tongue.  Thomas can fit the entirety of Vincent’s cock in his hand and almost as effortlessly in his mouth.  He knows that the answer to Vincent’s prayer had been correct.  His body is flawless, holy.

Thomas presses his mouth against the slight softness of Vincent’s abdomen as he strokes him, each breathy moan from him more precious than the last.  “I wouldn’t change you for anything in this world,” he says, kissing what’s hidden there with reverence, “or in the next.”

“Thomas,” Vincent sobs, “por favor no pares, no me dejes, no pares…”

Thomas understands just enough for his heart to break.  He doesn’t stop touching Vincent, but he does shift to lie next to him.  “Vincent,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth, “I won’t leave you.”  Thomas feels Vincent’s hips jerk and pulls him close, sliding his thigh between Vincent’s just in time to feel the pulse of wet heat.   That’s all it takes for him to follow, coming against Vincent’s belly with a helpless shudder.

“That’s it,” Vincent whispers, holding him tightly.  “Shhh, there.”

Thomas feels so wrung-out he can’t find his breath.  “Vincent.  Ah.”

Vincent kisses Thomas’s cheek, nuzzling there.  “Are you all right?”

“I’ve never been more…whatever this is,” Thomas sighs, rubbing his back.

“As long as it’s not unbearable,” Vincent replies, hiding his face in Thomas’s neck.

“Look at me,” Thomas implores, tilting Vincent’s chin up.  “You are everything.”

“I will love you even as I love God.  Until my last breath, Thomas.”

“As I’ll love you until mine, Vincent.  More certain than the light.”

Chapter Text

Thomas wakes to the sound of a mobile phone vibrating on one of the nightstands.  He can’t be sure if it’s his or Vincent’s, and he doesn’t want to reach across Vincent and risk waking him when he’s sleeping so soundly against Thomas’s chest.  Thomas grits his teeth and reaches in the opposite direction instead, snagging his off the nightstand on what is, at least for now, his side of the bed.  He taps the screen.

Thomas exhales shakily.  It’s a message from Sister Agnes, which…he ought to have been expecting this since there’s no protocol on how to handle the continuing Dean of the College spending the night in the new Pope’s quarters.  Agnes has decided to help them navigate this unprecedented situation out of the goodness of her bloody-minded heart, and Thomas knows they wouldn’t survive a day without her.

Even as Thomas sets about responding, he guiltily reminds himself that not only is the situation far from unprecedented, but that roles like his own and Aldo’s only rose to prominence because of the original scandal.  During the sixteenth century, Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte, otherwise known as Pope Julius III, famously elevated an orphaned young man in his family’s service, an adoptee by the name of Innocenzo—

(Thomas drops his phone, his thoughts scattering around another beat of horrible, hilarious coincidence.  In the seventeenth century, his own countryman Thomas Beard had written that it was Julius’s “custom to promote none to ecclesiastical livings, save only his buggerers.”)

—to the previously non-existent role of Cardinal-Nephew.  Julius’s romantic relationship with the young man, nightly bed-sharing and all, had been an open secret.  It had been the subject of gossip, rumor, and even two sonnets by Joachim du Bellay, becoming a full-blown scandal by the time of Julius’s death.  Thanks to the scandal, the role of Cardinal-Nephew had been abolished, and Secretary of State had been upgraded.

Thomas fishes in the sheets for his phone, murmuring an apology into Vincent’s tousled hair.  If history is destined to repeat, then he can only hope they’ll do the farce justice this time around.  With Agnes’s help, maybe it won’t even be a farce.  Thomas returns to his texts.

SA
Come out to the door.
Only you, Eminence.
Let His Holiness rest.

TL
Please give me just a moment.
Why are you doing this, Sister?

SA
Because you are the trouble we need.
Because devotion is a blessing to see.

TL
Believe me when I say he’s trouble, too.

SA
Then you will temper him, won’t you?

TL
Sister, it’s the trouble I admire in him.

SA
Then celebrate it as you see most fit.

Vincent stirs as Thomas props his phone on his shoulder to type his responses.  He nuzzles and kisses the pulse-point beneath Thomas’s ear, not quite awake.  Vincent’s lips part on a shivery gasp as he becomes just aware enough of his position to press their hips flush.  He squirms and picks at the pillowcase, trying his best not to interfere with Thomas’s business even though it’s obvious that he wants Thomas’s attention.

“Who is it?” Vincent asks plaintively, clinging to Thomas.

“Sister Agnes texted,” Thomas sighs.  “Seems important.”

Vincent makes a fretful noise.  “Please don’t get up yet.”

“My dear, I’ll come back,” Thomas whispers, lowering the phone.  He caresses Vincent’s side, and then the hollow of his hip.  “I’ll give you whatever you need until…”  He nuzzles Vincent’s neck.  “Until it’s time to pray, or until you’re hungry.  I’ll go and fetch you something.”

Vincent rolls onto his back, hauling Thomas with him.  He’s flushed with desire that’s increasingly difficult to ignore, not that Thomas has been ignoring it, and his hair sticks to his forehead as he takes Thomas’s face in both hands.  Vincent kisses Thomas; his unabashed whimper makes Thomas’s chest ache.  It would only take a few minutes to bring him trembling to orgasm, but Thomas strokes his hair, calming him.

“Whatever Agnes has to say will make the rest of our day easier to navigate,” Thomas says.  He cups Vincent’s jaw, running his thumb along Vincent’s cheekbone.  “Please be patient with me.  This addition to my duties is…welcome, but unfamiliar.  I can’t afford any missteps.” 

Vincent blinks at him, suddenly contrite and grateful.  “Why do you risk so much?”  He props himself on his elbows.  “You mustn’t let me be so indolent.  There’s a Pope who sins, and then there’s this.  I’m sorry.  We should go down to breakfast together.  It’s no hardship.”

“Because I love you,” Thomas tells him, “and I keep my promises.”  He kisses Vincent’s forehead, tucking him back under the covers.  “Lie down.”

Vincent sinks back against the pillows, a spark of stubbornness illuminating his glance.  But his gaze softens as he watches Thomas get out of bed, gather his clothes, and hurry toward the bathroom to dress.  Vincent doesn’t have to say it out loud; his response is implicit.

That’s how Thomas—in the wrinkled clothes he’d been wearing last night at dinner, worried out of his mind—strides out of the bedroom, through the living area, and to the door.  He sucks in his breath, unbolts it, and glances first from side to side at the Swiss Guards.

Thankfully, there is no untenable scenario in play.  It’s only Sister Agnes standing there with Thomas’s own rollerboard suitcase poised neatly in front of her.  The dragging handle is fully extended; only her white-knuckled grip on it gives her own frayed nerves away.

“Good morning, Your Eminence,” Agnes says, all stern and competent business, pushing the suitcase at Thomas.  “Accept my apology on behalf of the sisters that your new quarters on this floor are not yet ready, and that it took them until this morning to pack your things.”

“Good morning, Sister.  Thank you,” Thomas says, experiencing a rush of relief.  This is how Agnes speaks when she needs Thomas to remain on his best behavior and follow her lead.  “During the cardinals’ departures over the next few days, they’ll be understandably overwhelmed.”  He thinks about anything else he might say in this situation that might help.  “I found linens in the bathroom cupboard.  The sofa was fine.”

“Thank you for your flexibility, Eminence,” Agnes continues, tactfully lowering her voice.  “It is kind of you to ease His Holiness through this transition, hour by hour, when he has had none of the others’ experience.  He was overwhelmed before, what with the headaches, let alone since the final vote.  It was unlikely enough that he should make it safely to us, praise be to God.”  Agnes’s look of motherly concern has never come easily, which is what makes it so painfully, awkwardly convincing as she attempts it now.  “How is the Holy Father adjusting?”

“He’s asleep, insofar as I’m aware,” Thomas replies, allowing himself to slip back into a conversational cadence even if his choice of words remains performative.  “Sister Agnes, I…couldn’t have accomplished the events of this past week without you.  And I understand how much more vital our partnership will be under this change in circumstances.”  He swallows hard.  “I’ve been difficult to work with in the past.  Forgive me.”

“Thank you, Eminence.  You’re forgiven.  May I come inside for a moment?” Agnes asks impatiently.  She makes a show of leaning to one side, peering past him.  “I’ll gather the used linens.  Not the Holy Father’s, of course, since he’s resting.”  With that, she marches forward, so Thomas has no choice but to step aside and close the door behind them.  “Thomas, pay attention!” Agnes hisses sharply once they’re alone.

“Yes, Agnes,” Thomas says, taking his turn to be contrite, following her through the living room and into the smaller bathroom.  “I’m listening.”

Agnes opens the bathroom cupboard and pulls out a set of sheets at random.  They’re clean, because Thomas had used no such thing on the sofa the night before.  She unfolds and makes a mess of them, and then leaves them on the floor, folding her arms across her chest.

“You asked me why I’m doing this,” Agnes says, a tremor creeping into her voice.  “I’m doing it for the love of God and Holy Mother Church.  For the love of that determined, humble man in the other room who would’ve followed you to the ends of the earth because you alone treated him with kindness.”  She crosses herself.  “He thought it would be you, Thomas.  When I saw the way the wind was blowing, I decided to help clear a path. Even I thought it would be you.  But that’s not how things turned out, is it?  I should’ve seen it when he prayed.”

“Don’t feel too bad about it,” Thomas says self-deprecatingly.  “You’re not the one who wasted several votes on Aldo and on yourself before realizing where your loyalties should’ve lain all along.  I’m going to spend the rest of my life making that up to him as it is.”

“You’re a petty man,” Agnes says with mild reproach.  “But you’re unfailingly loyal to those you care about.  Aldo attests to that.  You’re also honest, shrewd, organized, and ruthless when you need to be.  You don’t back down.”  She stoops and gathers the rumpled linens into her arms.  “And you love His Holiness as fiercely as he loves you.  Now that we’re on this path, there’s no way out but through.  Do you understand?”

“I do,” Thomas says, piling one of the pillowcases back into Agnes’s arms when it falls.  “I understand that there are wolves at our door.”

“Good,” Agnes replies, relieved, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.  “Most of all, I’m doing this because,” she continues with great effort, “even though my Francesca’s almost five years dead and gone, she’d never forgive me for leaving the two of you without help.”

Thomas feels so suddenly undeserving of this woman’s support that he can’t find the words to express his unworthiness.  He’d known and worked with Francesca just as closely as with Agnes.  Surely he’d understood and never drawn attention to them out of respect, but…had he?

“Don’t you cry, too,” Agnes scoffs, using the linens to dab at her eyes.  “I need to be on my way down to the laundry.  Aldo says I can bring a breakfast tray for the two of you under these…conditions we’ve created where you’re getting him gently acclimated, although if nobody sees the two of you at lunch, I suspect the Venetians will escalate their hostility.  Speaking of Aldo…”  She takes a breath, tilting her head toward the door, so Thomas follows her out.  “He and Ray would like to meet with us after dinner.  Here, in the Holy Father’s quarters.”

“Who’s us?” Thomas asks, his chest tight.

“Me, you, and His Holiness,” Agnes replies.

“This is a war council,” Thomas says grimly.

Agnes shrugs as she continues to march toward the door.  “One secret is tricky enough,” she replies, “but I understand there are two.”

“Fuck,” Thomas says, and then covers his mouth.  “Did Ray tell you—”

Agnes snorts.  “Where do you think Ray gets half of his information?”

“You did the research for Ray into our late Holy Father’s records.  On Geneva.”

“I booked our current Holy Father’s subsequently canceled travel to Geneva.”

“Yes, that’s…”  Thomas rubs his forehead, dizzy.  “All of this makes sense.”

“I’ll leave food outside the door in an hour,” Agnes says.  “Peace be with you.”

“And also with you,” Thomas manages, closing the door hurriedly behind her.

Vincent backpedals from the bedroom door as soon as Thomas returns to him, a white bathrobe hanging loose on his frame, his rosary wound too tightly around his right wrist.  He’d been silently praying while eavesdropping on the conversation between Thomas and Agnes.

“I’ve put you in a terrible position,” Vincent says as Thomas carefully loosens the beads from around his hand.  “This meeting shouldn’t…”

Thomas quiets him with a kiss, because the sentiment is nonsense.  “This meeting would happen anyway,” he murmurs against Vincent’s lips.

Vincent is already unbuttoning Thomas’s shirt, hastily whispering the first half of the Salve Regina.  Thomas doesn’t even know if Vincent had gotten that far in the time he’d been speaking with Agnes, but he supposes one learns to pray with speed or make peace with skipping ahead when one lives in active war zones.  It had been one thing to imagine prayer and intimacy in such a casual collision, but it’s another to live it.

“Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ,” Vincent mumbles in Thomas’s ear, moving on from his shirt to unfastening his trousers.  His movements are tender, but pragmatic; he’s not going to let Thomas off the hook about coming back to bed.  “Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra.  Salve ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevæ.”  Vincent steadies Thomas while he sheds his clothes.  “Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle.”

“This isn’t conducive,” Thomas points out, setting his hands reverently on Vincent’s waist beneath his loose robe, “to not letting you be indolent.”

“Finish the prayer,” Vincent replies, straightforward and sweet.  There’s no guilt, no fuss as he backs toward the bed, tugging Thomas with him.

Thomas happily lets Vincent haul him down on top of himself when he sits and falls back against their nest of skewed covers.  “Eia, ergo, advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte,” he says, cherishing the way Vincent shivers when he runs his palm from Vincent’s chest down to cup his straining cock against his belly.   “Et Iesum—” Thomas hesitates, just running his fingers over the petal-soft skin until Vincent’s eyes snap shut and his thighs start to shake “—benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc exsilium ostende.  Oh.”

Vincent writhes, bucking against the pressure of Thomas’s hand.  “Thomas,” he gasps, his blunt fingernails digging into Thomas’s sides.  “Please.”

Thomas kisses Vincent’s temple, shifting both hands to brace them on either side of Vincent’s shoulders.  His body’s been slower to catch up this morning, no fault of Vincent’s.  He’s hard enough now that grinding against Vincent feels so wonderful he can hardly breathe.

Vincent goes still beneath Thomas, and then he gasps ah, yes, ah as Thomas splays Vincent’s thighs just a bit wider.  There it is, there—wet heat between their bellies, so slight a trace in comparison to when Thomas finishes.  Like everything else about Vincent, it’s delicate.

Thomas kisses from Vincent’s collarbone down to his heaving abdomen, setting both hands against his hips to hold Vincent still while he lavishes more attention on him.  Vincent twitches and pants at the contact, winding his fingers in Thomas’s hair.  Thomas presses his cheek against the softness there, still slick with Vincent’s spend, intent on the rapid clench and release of the muscles beneath.  He turns his head and buries his nose in Vincent’s navel, parts his lips enough to run his tongue over the hidden, miraculous thing that he cannot reach.

“I wish,” Vincent breathes, licking his lips.  “Desearía poder sentirte aquí, dentro…”

“Oh,” Thomas gasps, feverishly kissing his way back up to Vincent’s neck.  “What?”

“That was in poor taste,” Vincent says, squeezing his eyes shut.  “After the prayer.”

“It’s not,” Thomas whispers.  There’s a white-hot flash of yearning down Thomas’s spine as Vincent slides a hand over his cock—trapping it against his abdomen, right where he’s still trembling with aftershocks. Thomas shifts his hips with a worshipful sigh.

“You like that thought,” Vincent says, his eyes hazy and disbelieving.  “Inside me.”

Thomas moans, spilling beneath Vincent’s shaking fingers.  “Yes,” he gasps.  “Yes.”

Neither one of them speaks for a while, but they trade lazy kisses while Thomas recovers.  Vincent’s stomach growls, and Thomas feels bad about how hard he starts to laugh.  He makes up for it by kissing Vincent’s cheek over and over; that earns him a smack on the arse.

“O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria,” Vincent murmurs.  They haven’t closed the prayer.

“Amen,” Thomas agrees, brushing Vincent’s hair back.  “I’ll go see if Agnes has left breakfast.”

Chapter Text

Thomas is grateful for Agnes’s intervention as soon as he and Vincent enter the dining room for lunch.  She takes the empty breakfast tray off Thomas’s hands and points toward a table where Aldo and Ray are already eating.  There are several other occupied tables, one of which contains Goffredo and a few of his traditionalist cronies.  Thomas can feel their eyes on him and Vincent as they join Aldo and Ray.

“Your Holiness,” Aldo says with a terse nod to Vincent, and then gives Thomas a lingering glance.  “Your Eminence.  We’re on for afterward?”

“Are you referring to the meeting?” Thomas asks blandly, shifting his gaze to Ray.  “We thought that would be held sometime this evening.”

Ray cuts a neat sliver off his herb-speckled chicken breast.  “We’re dining late.  It’ll be evening before we know it.  Might as well head up.”

Agnes sets full plates in front of Thomas and Vincent.  “The sooner we get it over with, the more time we’ll have to prepare for tomorrow.”

“I agree, Sister Agnes,” Vincent says earnestly.  “Thank you for providing breakfast this morning when I was feeling under the weather, and please thank the sisters on duty in the kitchen this afternoon.”  He gestures at Thomas’s plate, concerned.  “Do you need anything else?”

“No, it’s wonderful,” Thomas tells Agnes, at which point she nods at Vincent and walks away.  “Vincent,” he says, cutting his chicken, “I’m fine.”

Aldo watches the exchange with fascination, midway through taking a bite of salad.  “Credit where it’s due.  Nobody else can get him to do that.”

“I’ve only been trying for years,” Ray says with a touch of exasperation.  “Sister Agnes comes close, but she can put the fear of God in anyone.”

“Well, it’s not the fear of God I’m hoping to instill,” Vincent says wryly, tilting his head at Thomas, offering an affectionate, apologetic smile.

“Pity,” Goffredo says from behind them, and Thomas nearly jumps out of his skin.  Vincent’s hand is on his shoulder before he knows it, calming and protective.  Unfortunately, Goffredo zeroes in on that right away.  “This leccapiedi intrigante could use it, Your Holiness.”

“I’m sorry, Goffredo,” Aldo cuts in before either Thomas or Vincent can say anything.  “Am I hearing things, or did the guy who makes his staff lick the embroidery on his slippers just call our esteemed Dean of the College a scheming suck-up?  You might want to try again.”

Goffredo takes a hit on his vape, flashing Aldo a caustic grin through the cloud of smoke.  “Santo Padre, my sincerest congratulations on your meteoric rise to the top,” he says to Vincent, casting a glance that’s just shy of lecherous at Thomas.  “And you, Eminenza,” Goffredo adds, clapping Thomas on the shoulder that Vincent isn’t touching, “enjoy your new job keeping track of that troublesome runaway turtle.”

“It’s nowhere near as dull as your day-to-day, so I’ll be fine,” Thomas says, shrugging Goffredo off.  He takes a bite of chicken, raising his eyebrows at Vincent.  “I was thinking, Your Holiness,” Thomas says conversationally, “that my first act ought to be to name it.”

“Name all of them,” Vincent replies, giving Thomas such a fond look that he falls in love with him all over again for instantly grasping that the goal is to give Goffredo indigestion.  “I’ll even help you.  Monsignor, would you put that on the agenda for tomorrow, please?”

Ray opens his mouth.  “I, ah,” he manages after a few seconds’ floundering, “will do that.”

Aldo chokes, spitting wine back into his glass, looking up in time to see Goffredo stalk off.

“Less talking, more eating,” he coughs.  “Everyone upstairs in twenty minutes.  Got it?”

Thomas finishes his lunch, because the press of Vincent’s ankle against his beneath the table has the same effect as Vincent’s encouraging touches during breakfast.  Once the four of them at the table have finished, they rise and file out, collecting Agnes on their way past the office.

As soon as the five of them are behind the closed door of Vincent’s modest living room, Aldo rounds on Thomas wearing the closest expression to panic that Thomas has ever seen on him.  “That?” he says emphatically, pointing at the floor.  “Down there?  Cannot happen again!”

“Unfortunately, I must agree,” Agnes says, her eyes ominously steely, letting a note of disappointed concern creep into her voice.  “You didn’t just rise to Goffredo’s provocation.  You outright flaunted…”  She gestures at Thomas and Vincent in frustration, snapping her head up.  “Sit down,” Agnes orders, pointing at the sofa, and then gives Aldo and Ray an exasperated head tilt.  “You two as well,” she adds, “in the chairs.”

“Okay, so,” Ray begins.  “It seems we’re all on the same page as far as awareness of the, ah, joyous bond that’s developed between—”

“Just say it, Ray!” Aldo blurts.  “They eloped during the most important work retreat of the century!  The Dean and the Pope got married!”

Vincent is wearing the mild, but dangerous smile that Thomas knows means he’s going to double down so stubbornly that Aldo will get nowhere.  “The Noche Oscura worked so beautifully for our vows, I thought,” he says, glib and genuine all at once.  “Don’t you think so, Thomas?”

“Yes, I do,” Thomas tells Vincent, and then turns to his old friend.  “To be honest with you, Aldo, there’s no other way it could’ve gone.”

Agnes rolls her eyes.  “Don’t make me regret giving you access to the office,” she sighs.  “Casual touch is fine, you’re already known to be affectionate with each other.  But you must watch your tongues.  Goffredo will make today’s exchange go a long way, just watch.”

Vincent nods in acquiescence.  “Deepest apologies, Sister.  I should never have let it get that far.”

“I’m the one who failed to turn the other cheek when Goffredo approached,” Thomas points out.

“The other matter is more urgent, in my estimation,” Ray says, “and I’m afraid…”  He swallows.  “Aldo is the only party unaware.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Aldo retorts.  “What the hell could be more urgent than hiding the workplace relationship of all time?”

Vincent closes his eyes, suddenly as fragile-seeming as he’d been in the Room of Tears.  “Thomas, do you have the file that Monsignor O’Malley got from Sister Agnes in the process of performing due diligence on me as an unknown quantity over the course of the conclave?”

“It’s with my things,” Thomas replies gently.  “Safe, here with us, but we’ll need to put it somewhere much safer.  Do you want me to go get it?”

“Yes,” Vincent says, opening his eyes again.  “Give it to Cardinal Bellini.  I believe he’s both astute and educated enough to make sense of the data.”

Thomas fetches the folder from the bedroom.  He returns, hands it across the coffee table to Aldo, and then says, “Please don’t disappoint me.”

Vincent scoots closer to Thomas as he resumes his seat on the sofa.  “Have faith in His Eminence. After all, mine in you wasn’t misplaced.”

Still, it’s an interminable twenty minutes or so while Aldo flips through the contents of the file several times.  Thomas knows that he’s being thorough in order to make sure that he doesn’t miss any vital details or context, and he’s grateful on Vincent’s behalf.

“I’m sorry that this is how you found out,” Vincent says when Aldo looks up at him in blank astonishment.  “I didn’t expect to find myself in this position any more than you did, but what’s done is done.  As you can see, our late Holy Father knew.  I had his support.”

Agnes and Ray both look like it’s taking every ounce of willpower not to flee the room.  In Ray’s case, fleeing the country might be more apt.

Aldo isn’t paying attention to either of them.  He’s staring at Vincent with a mix of emotions so complex that Thomas can’t untangle them.

“What if Tedesco gets his hands on these records, Your Holiness?  How about Adeyemi?  Plenty in their crowds think gays are damned whether we act on it or not, so imagine adding complications of gender and sex.  Some of them believe trans people go to Hell if they do get surgery to alter the bodies they were born with, whereas intersex people go if they don’t get surgery to ‘correct’ theirs—all in the same breath!”

“I’m not foolish enough to think that my situation will remain hidden indefinitely,” Vincent says, offering Thomas his hand even as his eyes remain stubbornly fixed on Aldo, “or even our situation.  I ask only for the chance to do what we can in the time we’ve been given.”

Thomas takes Vincent’s hand.  It’s the first physical contact that either of them has initiated, and he understands that it means far more than any touch that the assembled will witness between them in the future.  He twines their fingers with reverence, meeting Vincent’s eyes.  There’s no ring on Vincent’s finger, not yet, but Thomas kisses his knuckles and his wrist with the same dedication as he’d kissed his hand after the final vote.

“This is why His Holiness needs you,” Thomas says.  “Why we need you.  All of this will remain in the private sphere for longer with our joint efforts.  I worry less about myself than about our Holy Father.  His state is—” he squeezes Vincent’s hand “—most blessed and miraculous.”

Aldo rubs his chin.  “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what century this is,” he says in dismay.  “The Church hasn’t been on some shit like this since…I don’t know, the fifteen-hundreds? You have to admit they don’t make scandals like they used to, but…wow, got off-track.  We’re here to prevent this from becoming one.  It shouldn’t have to be.”  He shakes himself.  “Fuck.  Sorry.  I didn’t drink enough Barolo at lunch.”

There’s an awkward beat.  And then Ray blurts, trying to lighten the mood, bless his odd-humored heart: “There’s even been a recent plague!”

Honestly, Thomas is relieved that Vincent starts laughing first.  Under any number of other ecclesiastical officials, the last thirty seconds’ worth of offbeat remarks probably would’ve cost both Aldo and Ray their jobs.  Instead, Vincent is laughing so hard that Agnes has turned away with both hands over her mouth, although that doesn’t prevent a guffaw from escaping before she clears her throat and composes herself.  Even Aldo joins Ray in his self-satisfied snickering by the time Vincent is all but doubled over against Thomas’s shoulder, gasping with tears of mirth. 

“My dear,” Thomas says quietly, leaning close to Vincent’s ear, setting a steadying hand against his back before he even realizes what he’s doing.  “Do you need some water?” he asks, and then finds he can’t help cracking up, either, as he takes in Vincent’s ongoing, gleeful reaction.

“No, I’m fine,” Vincent gasps, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  “Eres increíble,” he tells Ray, grinning at him, and then points rapidly back and forth between him and Aldo.  “Both of you, actually.  You have all my thanks. This will be much more bearable because you have senses of humor.”

“Who, me?” Aldo asks.  “I think you mean because I’m cynical as all get-out, but thanks.”

Ray looks like he’s floating on a cloud of bliss; Thomas knows the feeling.  “Aw, stop.”

Agnes walks back over and positions herself between Aldo’s and Ray’s armchairs, tapping the backs of their heads.  “If anyone starts making inquiries about Geneva, contact me.  There are various levels of documentation.  I can direct the narrative to a point without lying.”  She glances at Vincent.  “Much will depend on the medical practitioners we vet for your private care team in the coming week.  I’ve already begun to compile a list of candidates.”  Agnes taps Ray’s head again.  “Put me on His Holiness’s itinerary for tomorrow.  One-on-one.  We’ll need an hour.”

“Thank you, Sister Agnes,” Vincent says, sobering the rest of the way in a hurry.  “Your attention to this means more than I can express.”

“Agreed,” Thomas says, casting her a grateful glance.  “You should be merciless in reminding me of how deeply I’m now in your debt.”

“As for this, here,” Agnes continues, pointing back and forth between Vincent and Thomas, “I’ve bought you another night until the adjacent suite will be ready for His Eminence.  I can only blame so much on the confluence of Thomas being in housing transition and you needing assistance with your migraine flare-up from someone who is not a nun, Holy Father.”  She exhales, folding her arms across her middle.  “Your public show of a need for painkillers the other night might just have, how would Aldo put it—saved your backsides, at least for the time being?”

“I do suffer from them,” Vincent replies, eyes downcast.  “Just…not the other night, and certainly not now.  What they don’t know…”

Agnes crosses herself and starts for the door.  “I’m not your confessor,” she sighs.  “Have Thomas put my number in your phone.  Text if you need anything.”  Agnes opens the door, glancing briefly back over her shoulder.  “Peace be with you, Eminences, Holiness.”

“And also with you,” Thomas mumbles out of sync with the other three men in the room, but Agnes is already gone as it is.  He stares at Aldo.

“The shit you get away with is outrageous, you know that?” Aldo says, shaking his head at Thomas in unabashed admiration.  “Holy Father, has he ever told you what a goody two-shoes he pretended to be when we went to seminary together in London?  He had every lecturer at Allen Hall wrapped around his little finger.  So damned on top of everything at every minute of every day that he could’ve orchestrated MIT-scale hacks and not gotten his ass kicked to the curb.”  He adjusts his glasses.  “Don’t let him make those big, sad eyes at you, for the love of God.”

Vincent gives Thomas a mock-reproachful look, clicking his tongue.  “To think I fell for that tactic so easily and gave you all of my votes.”

Ray just shrugs, smirking.  “I don’t know, that’s sensible.  It’s easier just to give in.  Thomas will wear you down by sheer, persistent proximity.”

“Thanks for making sure he ate during the circus, by the way,” Aldo sighs, rising.  “You’ll be doing that for the rest of your natural life, FYI.”

Vincent smiles.  “It’s no trouble.  I hope that you have a good night, Aldo.  May I call you that?  I don’t want there to be distance between us.”

“Distance?” Aldo scoffs, amused, beckoning for Ray.  “You aren’t just the Pope; you’re kind of my brother-in-law.  Yeah, Aldo’s fine.”

Ray gives an enthusiastic good-night wave.  “You can call me Ray, Your Holiness,” he says reassuringly.  “I’ll have your itinerary by morning.”

“When it’s just us, please don’t…”  Vincent extracts himself from Thomas with a mindful touch to Thomas’s cheek as he rises, and then leads their remaining guests to the door.  “Don’t rest on too much formality.  I’m not comfortable with it.  Please, please just call me Vincent.”

“What about Sister Agnes?” Aldo asks as Vincent opens the door for them.  “Good luck getting her to abandon ceremony.  Her glare can peel paint.”

Vincent grins at him.  “Thomas has advised me not to cross her, so I won’t.  She can call me whatever she likes.  Good night, Your Eminences.”

“Don’t rest on too much formality?” Ray ribs Vincent giddily as Aldo hustles him out the door and into the hall.  “Good night, Thomas!” he calls.

“Good night to you both!” Thomas calls from where he’s still sitting on the sofa as Vincent begins to close the door.  He sags against the cushions.

Vincent says something quiet and gracious to the Swiss Guards that Thomas can’t quite make out.  He bolts the door once it’s fully shut, making his way back to Thomas so swiftly that it’s startling.  Without any hesitation, he slides into Thomas’s lap, straddling him, winding his arms around Thomas’s neck.  He doesn’t do anything for the longest time except press his cheek against Thomas’s, breathing shakily, his heartbeat quick against Thomas’s chest until it begins to gradually slow.  Vincent had been more anxious about the meeting than he’d let on.

“My dear Vincent,” Thomas murmurs, holding him tightly.  “I’m here.”

Vincent nods fiercely, burying his face in Thomas’s neck.  “Sí.  Sí, lo sé.”

“Be not afraid.  We’ll have your back, all of us.  Every step of the way.”

“Where did you come from?” Vincent whispers.  “I love you so much.”

“I should be asking you that, although…”  Thomas kisses Vincent’s cheek.  He kisses it again, and again, and again, until Vincent’s sniffling turns to laughter.  “I’ve begun to suspect,” Thomas sighs, rubbing Vincent’s back, “that the late Holy Father is having a laugh at our expense.”

Vincent lifts his head, nodding in understanding.  “You think that he knew we would find each other during the proceedings once he’d passed.”

“I don’t think he knew what the outcome would be,” Thomas admits, “but I do think he knew that we would need each other.  That we’d fit.”

Vincent purses his lips, trying not to laugh again.  “We’re having a laugh at his, too, if you think about it.  Was he thinking of this kind of fit?”

Thomas hums against Vincent’s lips, surprised at the immediacy of the kiss.  Vincent’s impulses turn so swiftly from one moment to the next that he can hardly track them sometimes, but they’re always backed by such conviction that he never for a moment doubts his decision to trust.

“He was more worldly-wise than many would give him credit for,” Thomas replies between kisses, “so…mmm.  Who are we to question?”

“I liked that about him,” Vincent replies wistfully, scooting back slightly so he can look Thomas in the eyes.  “Like you, he was educated and shrewd, but also compassionate and progressive enough to leave the decision in my hands.  To give me an easier path if I wished to take it.”

“You would be no less of a miracle to me if you had undergone that procedure,” Thomas says earnestly.  “I want you to know that.  You’d still be…”  He kisses Vincent softer this time, slower, struggling for words.  “You are a marvel.  A message, but not from the past.  Aldo tried his best.”  He strokes Vincent’s cheeks.  “I’m thinking of your words.  The Church is what we do next, true.  But you are that future.”

“Carajo, eres un dulce hablador,” Vincent gasps, kissing Thomas so hungrily this time it makes him flush hot all over.  “It’s not the big, sad eyes Aldo should’ve warned me about,” he mumbles, unfastening Thomas’s trousers with practiced ease this time.  “Sweet-talker.”

“But—but I was being perfectly hon—”

“Shhh, shhh.  Takes one to know one.”

“The poetry should’ve tipped me off?”

“Tell me with a straight face you didn’t know I was trouble,” Vincent whispers in Thomas’s ear, already stroking Thomas’s half-hard cock with deft, worshipful hands.  “Tell me you didn’t know that getting close to me was going to mean turning your meticulous plans upside-down.”

“I can’t,” Thomas says adoringly, running his fingers through Vincent’s hair.  “I knew from the second I set eyes on you,” he sighs, pleased with the whimper Vincent tries to swallow when he gives Vincent’s hair a slight tug.  “You’re the trouble I need.”  Thomas luxuriates in the firm, demanding strokes that Vincent is now giving him, and then says, “I can’t take credit for that.  Agnes said it about us this morning.”

“Your sweet-talk comes with citations,” Vincent says, nipping Thomas’s earlobe, sending a jolt down his spine.  “You’re the trouble I need, too.”

“I don’t want to have to explain why the upholstery already needs replacing,” Thomas says shakily, “and it will need replacing if we do this here.”

Vincent laughs like he’d laughed earlier, startling and unrestrained.  “Come on, then,” he says, wobbling off Thomas’s lap, offering his hand.  “Bed.”

Thomas undresses while Vincent fusses with his phone on the nightstand, running searches in an app.  He crawls onto the unmade bed, naked and mildly self-conscious, while Vincent frowns, scrolls, taps, and scrolls some more.  After a minute, Vincent finally taps the screen with a sharp inhalation, leaving the phone where it is as the plaintive strings start to play—and Thomas’s heart stutters when he recognizes the song.

Vincent unbuttons his shirt, locking eyes with Thomas as he lets it slide down his arms and onto the floor.  “I thought that you might want to listen to the song somewhere more private than Sister Agnes’s office,” he says invitingly, approaching the bed with one hand extended.  “I’m so relieved that you didn’t mind when I told them that this was…”  Vincent shivers as Thomas takes his hand and tugs him toward the bed.

Thomas sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.  He pulls Vincent in by the hips and unfastens his trousers, looking up at him with conviction.  “I think of this as our vows, too,” Thomas says, steadying Vincent while he sheds what’s left of his clothes.  He nuzzles Vincent’s belly, drawing a soft gasp from him when he kisses his appendectomy scar.  It’s starker than others Thomas has seen, placed differently—long and vertical, running from just above Vincent’s belly button down to just above his pubic bone.  “Was there an initial complication that made it necessary to open you up like this?” he asks gently. “The cases in my mother's books always had the incision much smaller and to the right.”

Vincent nods, threading his fingers in Thomas’s hair.  “Ruptured,” he replies, sighing as Thomas kisses the scar again.  “An infection had set in.  It might’ve killed me. Extensive intervention meant more…well.  No wonder they got the full picture.  My recovery was slow.”

Thomas cups Vincent’s cock in his hand, tenderly licking the sensitive head before burying his face against Vincent’s abdomen.  Vincent’s fingers tighten against his scalp.  “I would slip inside you if I could,” he whispers. “Fill you with love where they’ve caused you pain.”

Vincent makes a broken sound that’s nearly hidden beneath the pitch of the strings that lead into the chorus.  “I would’ve liked that,” he whispers tremulously, “if God had seen fit to make it so.  I wouldn’t have been able to…”  He goes willingly when Thomas shifts further back onto the mattress and pulls him down into his lap, just like they’d been on the sofa.  “I can’t sire children.  I wouldn’t have been able to carry one to term, either, even though I have…”  Vincent sounds almost mournful.  “All of this God-given strangeness, and I can’t even give life.”

“You’ve given more life, saved more lives through your work,” Thomas tells Vincent, brushing his hair back off his face, “than anyone I’ve ever known.”  He kisses Vincent, adjusting his position when Vincent shifts to straddle him.  “Holy Father,” he gasps, “Holy Mother.  Innocent—”

“Thomas, when you said I was everything—”

“Everything to me, everything to the Church.”

Vincent knocks Thomas on his back against the mattress, bracing one hand on either side of Thomas’s head.  He arches against Thomas, bending for a searing, open-mouthed kiss.  Vincent is wild-eyed, so lovely that it’s all Thomas can do to hold on for dear life.  The way he touches them both, the way he moves his hips—Thomas couldn’t give greater thanks that neither of them believes such devotion is a sin.

“Please, por favor, Thomas, please,” Vincent cries, no longer the quiet thing he’d been their first two nights.  His movements are uncontrolled now that Thomas has a hand on him so that he’s not doing all the work.  “Amado, te necesito, te quiero, te sirvo, ah…”

“Amada,” Thomas whispers in Vincent’s ear, pulling Vincent down against himself.  “I need you, too.  I want you so much.”  He rolls Vincent over, settling on top of him, and the pitch of their desperation turns suddenly to delighted laughter when the reversal throws them off rhythm.  “I’ll serve you always,” Thomas continues, clasping Vincent close again once their mirth has settled, “in this world and the next.”

Vincent shudders under Thomas, stifling a wail against Thomas’s shoulder.  He’s so beautiful when he comes that Thomas forgets everything else, shushing him and kissing his hair.  The Swiss Guards most likely can’t hear him over the music.  Even so, it’s endearing.

Thomas feels Vincent’s warm, trembling hand on him and spills after a few more strokes.  He can’t believe that he gets to have this.  Gets to have Vincent for whatever time they remain here, or wherever they go if circumstance should drive them from within these walls.

“You’re smiling.  I love to see you smile,” Vincent says, breathless, one hand flung above his head in the mess of tangled sheets.  “Why?”

“I’ve realized something,” Thomas tells him, reaching up to twine their fingers.  He kisses Vincent’s cheek, and then his nose, smitten.

“You’re going to make me guess?” Vincent pouts.  He wiggles, reminding Thomas they’re a mess, but doesn’t seem too put-out about it.

Thomas realizes he isn’t sure whether the song has looped yet or not. He kisses Vincent on the lips this time, lingering.  “I’m not afraid.”

“Of…what?”

“Happens.”

“To us?”

“Yes.”

Vincent grins at him.  “Not even if we’re exposed to the public, and it’s the worst scandal since the sixteenth century?  Poor Aldo.”

“Pope Julius III and Cardinal Innocenzo were almost telenovela-worthy,” Thomas points out.  “I’m quite sure we could outdo them.”

Vincent touches Thomas’s cheek.  “I couldn’t ask for a better partner in this, Thomas.  Your humor, your grace.  I hope you know.”

Thomas catches Vincent’s hand, kissing it.  “You’re the answer to every prayer I thought had gone unheard, so…yes, Vincent, I do.”

Chapter Text

After dinner that evening, Thomas reads for a while with Vincent curled fast asleep next to him, his tousled head resting in Thomas’s lap. He hadn’t realized the full extent of either his exhaustion or Vincent’s—but between the organizational burnout, the extreme jet-lag, and the intense emotional upheaval, it’s not surprising now. Thomas knows that he should count himself blessed to have even been granted the previous night and the night ahead in Vincent’s arms, but bitterness bites at his throat when he thinks of leaving for his own quarters the next day.

Married. Aldo had called Thomas and Vincent married, and he’d even gone so far as to say the Pope was as good as his brother-in-law. Thomas feels as if, through Aldo speaking those words in his capacity as a cardinal and with intercession from Vincent’s predecessor, God had blessed their union in the only way possible. In this world and in the next, they had at least been granted acceptance where it mattered most.

“You think about too much at once,” Vincent murmurs. He nuzzles Thomas’s hip, pressing a kiss against the brushed cotton. “Does it hurt?”

Thomas snorts, grinning in spite of himself. He looks away from his new ebook copy of The Collected Works of Saint John of the Cross (Kavanaugh and Rodriguez, because why not throw in a third translation) and glances down at Vincent. “Our late Holy Father ought to have warned me what a smart-arse you are, my dear. I can’t keep a straight face. That’ll be inconvenient when you use your wit during public appearances.”

Vincent turns his head. “He ought to have warned me just how badly you needed it. I’m working overtime to keep you smiling, amado.”

“Don’t ever feel like you have to do that,” Thomas says, stroking Vincent’s jaw. “Your presence alone is—” he exhales, momentarily lost in Vincent’s lively, patient eyes and fond, indulgent smile “—joy itself. Surely I’m undeserving of my eternal reward on earth.”

Vincent winds an arm around Thomas’s waist, burying his face against Thomas’s belly. He kisses blindly, open-mouthed, breathing sheer warmth through Thomas’s threadbare Allen Hall t-shirt. “What a sweet-talker, Dios mío,” he sighs, nuzzling a little lower this time. “But I can’t blame you,” Vincent continues, making Thomas’s cock twitch as he mouths inquisitively at it through the fabric. “I feel like I’m in Heaven, too.”

Thomas is so startled by the sudden turn that he drops his phone, narrowly missing Vincent’s head. He takes a shaky breath, raking his fingers through Vincent’s hair as Vincent teases him with his tongue. “Who’s the sweet-talker?” Thomas blurts, using his free hand to caress from Vincent’s knee up to his hip. Vincent is in one of the plain black t-shirts and pairs of plaid boxers that Ray had procured after Vincent’s arrival with next to nothing. Thomas gasps, sliding his hand up the leg of Vincent’s boxers to massage the juncture of his hip and thigh.

Vincent falters in his efforts, muffling a low, startled whine as Thomas touches him. He finally unbuttons Thomas’s pajamas, drawing out the head of his cock. He takes it in his mouth with a contented sigh, lapping delicately at Thomas’s slit before sucking in earnest.

“Vincent, that’s—” Thomas says haltingly, shaking with the raw, piercing bliss of it. He splays his trembling fingers beneath Vincent’s boxers, sliding his palm until Vincent hitches his hips. “Oh, love,” he sighs, curling his fingers around the silken heat between Vincent’s legs.

Vincent lets Thomas’s cock slip from between his lips, his breath catching as Thomas strokes him. “Why won’t you let me finish…” He pants desperately, uncurling his body, arching into Thomas’s grasp as he rolls onto his back. “I’m,” Vincent whimpers breathlessly, “mmm.”

Thomas withdraws his hand from Vincent’s boxers. He catches Vincent beneath the arms and hauls him into a sitting position. Thomas pulls him between his thighs, his back against Thomas’s chest. “Here,” Thomas says, tugging Vincent’s waistband. “Take these off.”

Vincent wriggles out of his boxers, sighing as Thomas helps him re-settle. “I feel you,” he murmurs, tilting his head back against Thomas’s shoulder, shifting his hips so that there’s friction for Thomas against the small of his back. “Ah,” he breathes as Thomas slides one hand beneath his shirt and wraps the other around his cock again.  “I wanted to taste you.  Take care of you like you take care of me.”

“I’ll let you finish that sometime, I promise,” Thomas says in Vincent’s ear, running his fingers over Vincent’s heaving chest, keeping his touch light. “I want to hold you like this,” he soothes, working his thumb in circles over the slick head of Vincent’s cock. “I want to watch you.”

Vincent only lasts a few more seconds. He jolts against the pressure of Thomas’s hand over his heart, releasing in delicate spurts over Thomas’s fist. Vincent winds his fingers in the duvet on either side of Thomas’s thighs, crying out sharply even though they’re not playing music.

Reflexively, Thomas clutches Vincent closer and thrusts against the sweat-damp small of his back. He comes with Vincent nuzzling and nipping his neck, the scrape of Vincent’s teeth and the breathless encouragement from Vincent’s lips more than enough to push him over.

Vincent slumps in Thomas’s arms even as Thomas shivers with aftershocks. “Thank you for humoring me, Thomas. I cherish this time.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Thomas wheezes, kissing the side of Vincent’s head, “but please take pity on an old man. No more tonight.”

“You have barely a decade on me,” Vincent reminds him. “What is it, again? Eight years? I’m not young, Thomas. You just think I look it.”

“I take it back. Fifty-four is middle-aged.”

“I still don’t think sixty-two is all that old.”

“Fine. Take pity on a worn-out man, then.”

“Pobrecito. There, there are the sad eyes.”

“Are they working? Please say they are.”

Ever pragmatic, Vincent turns, gives Thomas a lingering kiss, and then goes to the bathroom to get a washcloth to clean up the mess. He’s efficient about that, too, stripping out of his shirt and Thomas out of his damp pajamas before getting them both tucked under the covers.

Thomas can’t believe he’s sleeping naked for a second night in a row. Vincent is warm in Thomas’s arms—comforting and impossibly familiar. The bed frame vibrates, Thomas realizes his phone has slipped between the mattress and the headboard.

Vincent reaches down and retrieves it. He sets his mouth in a resigned line as he studies the screen. “There’s a group text now with the five of us,” he says. “Ray has sent a draft of my—” Vincent looks uncertain in the phone’s glow “—our itinerary for tomorrow?”

“I’ll be present for as much of it or as little of it as you ask,” Thomas says with deference, taking the phone from Vincent’s hand, setting it on the nightstand. “I won’t intrude on your one-on-one time with Agnes to discuss your medical team, of course. That would be—”

“No,” Vincent cuts in, determined. “All of it, but especially that one.”

“Vincent, I’m eternally grateful for your trust,” Thomas sighs, “but why?”

“You’re my husband before God,” Vincent says, “in sickness and in health.”

Thomas closes his eyes, willing them not to sting. He holds Vincent so tightly that it must be uncomfortable for him, but Vincent clings in kind.

“In sickness and in health,” Thomas acquiesces. “Yes, all right.”

“You need rest,” Vincent says, chagrined. “I’ve been demanding.”

“I’ll always do my best to love you the way you deserve,” Thomas insists, rubbing Vincent’s back reassuringly. “You’ll just need to be…patient with me sometimes. I know that it doesn’t seem that way now, what with the honeymoon phase we’re in, but…”

Vincent kisses Thomas’s neck, and then his shoulder. “I know about your history of illness,” he says hesitantly. “I should’ve said something. I just didn’t…” He huffs. “I didn’t want to say anything since it’s been…since intimacy has been very enjoyable for us so far.”

“Did Agnes tell you?” Thomas asks, the knot in his chest unraveling in relief. “I’ve been in remission for a few years. It’s funny. I thought I’d never…have any use for that part of myself moving forward.” He shrugs, tucking his chin over the top of Vincent’s head.

“Please tell me that you keep up with your screenings,” Vincent whispers, frank and imploring. “Prostate cancer is a terrible way to die.”

For the first time, foolishly, it occurs to Thomas that violent death may not be the worst of what Vincent has seen in his ministries after all. In places with limited infrastructure and resources, terminal illnesses result in protracted, painful ends for those they afflict.

“Like clockwork,” Thomas reassures Vincent, which is true. He’s a creature of meticulous habit no matter how close he’s often come to despair.

“Good,” Vincent replies. “Agnes didn’t volunteer the information out of nowhere. That night when I asked for painkillers, and she let me into the office, there was an old Post-It. Something about a get well card for you. I’m…nosy when I care too much. I asked her about it.”

Thomas can’t help smiling into the darkness of the room. He closes his eyes, burying his nose in Vincent’s soft, hopelessly messy hair. “I forgot to pray that God would grant us a Pope who meddles,” he teases, and that earns him a pinch on the side. “Thankfully, He provided.”

The next morning, Thomas learns in short order what a disciplined soul Vincent intends to be in his capacity as Innocent XIV. He wakes around six to find Vincent already dressed, kneeling on his side of the bed, and silently praying the rosary with his beads wrapped around both Thomas’s hand and his. Thomas waits in silence until Vincent has finished, his throat catching as Vincent brings Thomas’s hand and the beads up to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss against Thomas’s ring. He leans in and kisses Thomas softly on the mouth, and then helps him out of bed.

“Good morning,” Thomas says. “Do you know, standing here wearing nothing while you’re a saintly vision is the first time in the midst of all this I’ve felt blasphemous?” He kisses Vincent’s forehead with tender pride. “You’d best go downstairs, my dear. I’ll catch up.”

“Why?” Vincent asks stubbornly. “Breakfast isn’t for another two hours, and I haven’t planned a private Mass. Am I obliged to give one every morning? It’s not something I prioritized daily in most of the places I’ve served, as you can imagine.”

Thomas can’t believe he’s on the clock in his role as advisor without a stitch on his body. “Personal preference, Your Holiness. Some Popes have given private Mass daily in the chapel on these premises, whereas others have done it semi-regularly or only on special occasions—aside from holy days of obligation, of course, which are for the most part performed in St. Peter’s.” He glances desperately in the direction of the shower, which is just visible through the open bathroom door. “No more questions until I’m put together, I beg of you. This feels indecent.”

Vincent covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle his amusement, but it’s no use. He doubles over laughing as Thomas flees for the shower, calling after him in gleeful disbelief, “That Salve Regina the other morning was fine, but this feels indecent?”

“Innocent my arse!” Thomas shouts from behind the closed door, running the water just shy of scaring. “You’re a menace!”

Vincent is absolutely wheezing. “I’ll see how many Hail Marys I can manage by the time you’re done! Is that sufficient penance?”

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us, Thomas thinks, hoping that a reference to tragedy will help him to keep a straight face, but he cracks up, too. Our new Pope turned out to be the love of my life—but the real plot twist is that he’s irreverence incarnate.

Vincent helps Thomas to get dressed once he’s finished, his touch tender but no-nonsense. When they reach the dining room, they find Aldo and Ray sharing a table as usual, so they join them. Ray wastes no time in apologizing to Vincent about the fact that the first half of his day is split between the first of many extensive appointments with his personal tailor and then a several hour meeting with Aldo for purposes of running through a list of diplomats and dignitaries who have requested to be scheduled in for his first few weeks’ worth of audiences.

Thomas is startled as, beneath the tablecloth, Vincent seeks his hand. He prompts, “That brings us up to the break for lunch, correct?”

“Am I to understand that Dean Lawrence will be walking you through the day, Holiness?” Aldo asks, keeping his voice more or less neutral. There’s maybe a hint of teasing, but he’s trying to make sure Thomas isn’t being overbearing or micromanaging, which is sweet.

“Yes,” Vincent confirms matter-of-factly. “I asked if he’d be kind enough to do so, and he patiently agreed.” He resumes eye contact with Ray, making sure he’s included in the discussion. “The appointment with Sister Agnes is after lunch, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes,” Ray confirms. “It’s in a time slot that’s usually been set aside for rest or leisure by predecessors, Holy Father.”

“Rest or leisure,” Vincent echoes, relaxing perceptibly. “Contemplation, listening to music, napping, reading, a walk…?”

Aldo fixes Thomas with a look, and then shifts it to Vincent. “Quality time with your favorite person. Sky’s the limit.”

Ray clears his throat, primly anxious. “An hour or two in which to do whatever you wish before duty calls once more.”

Vincent looks at Thomas, smiling without a trace of mischief this time. “There’s already time built in for the turtles.”

Thomas is simply relieved that Vincent hasn’t taken Aldo’s risqué bait. Thomas has no compunctions about imagining how readily he’ll assent if Vincent wants to use the time for mid-afternoon lovemaking now and then. He’ll do anything to keep Vincent’s stress levels as low as possible.

“Aldo used to visit the Holy Father’s quarters to play chess in the evenings,” Thomas points out, deciding he’ll prevent further innuendo-driven tests of fortitude from Aldo by retaliating with a truth that can be read as untoward. “You can shift that block of time to later on some days.”

“Attempt that at your own risk,” Aldo tells Vincent with an amiable shrug. “Our dear Dean is terrible at chess. He’s even worse than I am, and that takes some doing, trust me.” He rises from the table, nodding at each of the three of them in turn. “See you this afternoon, Your Holiness.”

Once Aldo is gone, Vincent releases Thomas’s hand, realizing that he’s been distracting him. “You should eat,” he says. “It will be a long day.”

“I’ll be fine,” Thomas replies, starting on a piece of toast so Vincent won’t fret. “Ray, has Agnes mentioned anything about my suite being ready?”

“No, Your Eminence,” Ray says, adjusting his glasses as he glances down his clipboard. “I imagine you’ll want to ask her yourself this afternoon.”

Vincent won’t let them leave with Ray to meet the tailor until Thomas has eaten his banana and finished his coffee. It sets them back about five minutes, which ruffles Ray’s feathers, although it’s worth it to see Agnes smirk when she briefly leaves the office to help herself to some food, too.

Thomas, seated next to Ray so that he can see messages from the Papal inbox displayed on his iPad, reads out the text of each and helps Vincent begin to form responses to the correspondence that has already piled up while he’s measured and fitted and pinned for an endless checklist of garments from the utilitarian to the high ceremonial. Ray makes the amused, yet astute observation that he and Thomas are and will be serving as Personal Secretaries to Innocent XIV as much as they’re serving as Dean of the College and Secretary of the College. Ray is not wrong.

“Did my predecessors have Personal Secretaries in addition to the individuals serving in your respective roles?” Vincent asks, genuinely concerned. “If so, it would be unfair of me to expect the two of you to do two jobs each. We should be hiring at least one person to help ease your burdens.”

“Most of them had at least one Personal Secretary, yes,” Thomas admits, meeting Vincent’s eyes from where he and Ray are seated a very short distance away. “Some had two or three of them, depending on individual capacity for organization…or lack thereof. Give yourself some grace, my dear; you’ve barely settled in. You know that Ray and I consider ourselves up to the task of filling modified roles, as you may require.”

Vincent is visibly pained. “I’ve asked so much of you both already.”

Thomas wants to hold him. “Early days yet, Holiness,” he reassures.

Ray smiles. “Besides, the additional role’s split three ways, not two.”

Vincent looks pensive. “I suppose it is,” he agrees. “Sister Agnes.”

Thomas manages to peel them away from both Ray and the tailor early so that Vincent can decompress before Aldo comes knocking on the door for his part of the morning.  Rather than a kiss this time, Thomas instantly finds himself with an insistent armful of Vincent in the elevator.

Vincent radiates distress.  As soon as they’re past the Swiss Guards and safely in his quarters, he collapses in Thomas’s arms again on the sofa. He’s breathing unsteadily, trying to suppress what feels like either anger or frustration at the circumstances he’s tolerated all morning.

“Thomas, it just—it feels wrong to have so many people serving me! It doesn’t sit well.  Even worse than that, the expectations placed upon all of you are excessive.  There were so many more pressing concerns in my previous ministries, and I managed to get along fine without—”

“Dear Vincent,” Thomas whispers, regretting just how jarring the change in Vincent’s circumstances has proved for him. “You now serve billions, and you do it through vastly different channels and mechanisms than before. It takes a lot of support to accomplish.”

Vincent nods against Thomas’s shoulder, taking several deep, steadying breaths. He closes his eyes or a few seconds, and then opens them again.  “I know that you’re right. I know that I accepted this of my own free will. It’s just…to be faced with the reality of it…”

“I’ll be more than your Dean and your Secretary if you’ll let me,” Thomas murmurs, stroking Vincent’s zucchetto off his head. “As your husband,” he whispers, softer still, “I’ll be John to you. Only now do I understand what your faith in me during those votes meant.”

Vincent makes a surprised sound, and then his arms are tight around Thomas’s neck in a burst of startled joy. “It does seem strange,” he replies wonderingly, “that this office should ever have been designed for one soul.” He kisses Thomas. “Not even God acts alone.”

“Just don’t make mention of this,” Thomas advises dryly, so fond of the man in his arms that his heart feels like it might burst. “Blasphemy, heresy…” He replaces Vincent’s zucchetto askew on his head as Aldo’s knock interrupts them. “Our rap sheet grows ever longer.”

“We occupy the highest office in the Church,” Vincent replies with equal fondness.  He sits up straight on the sofa as Thomas goes to answer the door, adjusting his zucchetto until he’s happy with the feel of it on his head. “I don’t think that those apply to our actions.”

Aldo strides into the room with his laptop and his briefcase as Thomas closes the door behind him.  He already looks tired as he casts appraising eyes back and forth between Thomas and Vincent. “If I ask what those last few sentences I overheard mean, am I going to regret it?”

“Not with your sense of humor,” Vincent says, wiping the slight traces of tears from his eyes, doing an impressive job of passing it off as interrupted laughter. “If we cut you into the Papacy as a third share—tongue in cheek, of course—what name would you choose?”

“That’s a sore spot, my dear,” Thomas warns teasingly as Aldo gets settled in one of the armchairs. “Maybe let it rest.”

“Are you kidding?” Aldo asks, flipping the laptop open. “If my brother-in-law makes me an offer like that, I’ll take it. Pope Leo ⅓ has a nice ring.”

Thomas can’t remember the last time there had been so much laughter in these rooms on a daily basis. That, he realizes, can be no bad thing.

Their time with Aldo goes easier on Vincent, maybe because it’s in his own space. Thomas makes careful note of that. If they can avoid the Apostolic Palace for almost everything except for state visits and audiences of the highest importance, then maybe the damage can be mitigated.

After lunch, they don’t relocate Ray before heading to Agnes’s office, because Ray had seemed relieved to devote some time to his usual duties on the College’s behalf. Agnes is waiting for them at the desk with two chairs set neatly to her right. It feels like a counseling appointment.

“Have they gone easy on you, Holiness?” Agnes asks Vincent once they’re all settled. “Nothing beyond what you can bear?”

“Alone, I would be at my limit,” Vincent replies earnestly, “but with the help I’ve received…” He takes Thomas’s hand since they’re shielded from prying eyes here. “I thank God for sending me to all of you, or...for sending all of you to me.  There is no difference.  Maybe it’s both.”

Agnes looks expectantly at Thomas. “Did Aldo behave himself? He’ll get what’s coming to him if he shared any horror stories.”

“I was there, Agnes,” Thomas sighs, hoping to reassure her.  “Aldo was straightforward. He didn’t resort to needless dramatics. I doubt there’s been any diplomatic incident within our infinitesimal borders worse than what Vincent has handled in the Congo, Baghdad, and Kabul.”

“May I see the list of physicians?” Vincent asks. “I read a research paper that suggests the state of care for intersex patients in Italy isn’t always as accessible as it should be. I’m not fragile compared to some due to my specific difference, and I’m in a position of privilege. But some variations—salt wasting Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia, for example—cause complications if not properly managed, especially in childhood.”

Agnes tenses with sudden, palpable anxiety. “Your file does happen to refer to your case in terms of that condition. Is this a matter of greater urgency than I had initially believed—not for doctrinal reasons, but for reasons of your well-being? Is there anything I should know?”

“I don’t have the salt wasting form,” Vincent says. “If I had, given the poverty in which I was raised? I wouldn’t have survived infancy.”

Thomas hasn’t always been the best at keeping his mouth shut—or at just listening, either. However, he knows full well that this is one of those times when there’s nothing useful that he can add to the conversation. So, he continues to hold Vincent’s hand and just listen.

“Osteoporosis monitoring is a concern,” Vincent continues calmly, “as are typical cancer screenings associated with an XX chromosome profile even though I never developed breast tissue to any great extent. I’m sure you’ve already made note of all of this in my file.”

Agnes nods, crossing herself. “It is nothing I haven’t…” She covers her face, briefly folding forward against the desk. “Nothing I haven’t contended with before,” she grits out, struggling to regain her composure, and that’s when Thomas remembers how Francesca had died.

“Oh, Agnes,” Thomas says, setting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t trouble you with this if it brings your ordeal to the surface. Go and get some air while we go through the list. Vincent can leave you written instructions for which physicians he’d like to pursue.”

“Thomas mentioned Francesca,” Vincent says quietly, glancing up at Agnes. “I’m so sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry that I never got to meet her. With your permission, I would like to give private Mass for her in the chapel here, yearly on the anniversary of her death if you wish.”

Agnes stiffly gets to her feet. She wipes her eyes brusquely, nodding at Vincent. “It would have meant more to her than it means to me, so…I’d like that, Father.” She points to the Manila folder on the desk. “Before I step out, I need to ask about one clinician’s chart note adjacent to your migraines. On a few occasions, it’s suspected that they’ve triggered low-grade seizures? Is that why you’re on topiramate?”

Thomas feels his stomach clench in alarm. He stares questioningly at Vincent, trying his best to keep any hint of accusation out of his demeanor. Vincent’s intersex variation may not pose any threat to his well-being, but seizures? Thomas’s heart sinks to hear it.

“Pius IX was epileptic, and it didn’t prevent him from serving,” Vincent points out. “I can cite history as readily as you.” He squeezes Thomas’s hand reassuringly. “I’m not epileptic. Migralepsy isn’t as severe. It isn’t even all that frequent. I can count the incidents on two hands.”

“With respect, Your Holiness, Your Eminence,” Agnes says stoically, “this is why I’ve been operating on some delay with the Dean’s new accommodations. I’m not sure it would be in our Holy Father’s best interests to live alone if there’s such a risk in play. I’ve been working on a press release that I plan to run by Aldo. I doubt we’d have any reason to release it unless word got out that we had converted the office in your suite into a second bedroom. Surely a corner of the living room might be sacrificed to your desk. Think it over.”

With that, Agnes leaves them alone in the office, tactfully pulling the door shut behind her.

Thomas stares at the screensaver while Vincent reaches for the Manila folder and the paper-clipped list of practitioner names sitting next to it. He’s been blind-sided a second time by information pertaining to Vincent’s health, and this time, it genuinely is alarming. But, in the same stroke, it may allow them to hold onto the very thing Thomas has been desperately afraid of losing by the day’s end.

“Good news,” Vincent says absently, reading down the list. “You won’t have to move out.”

Thomas turns to Vincent. “It’s fair enough that you said nothing. I didn’t tell you about my…”

Vincent looks up from the paper. He smiles, touching Thomas’s cheek, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s been so well controlled by the medication that I didn’t think anything of it,” he says. “The same with your remission, unless I’m very much mistaken?”

Thomas is abruptly grateful that Vincent will always, always find the kindest possible way to call him out on his foibles and hypocrisies. “Well, that’s…yes, I’d say that’s right. I didn’t see any reason to worry you on my account. As usual, you have the shape of it.”

“Well, you know what they say. A caballo regalado, no le mires el dentado.”

“That sounds so much more elegant in Spanish. Everything you say does.”

“Speaking of teeth, I hate going to the dentist. Do you know a good one?”

“If Agnes hasn’t put any on the list, then I’m happy to recommend mine.”

Chapter Text

Sifting through the list of medical practitioners takes well over an hour between the two of them.  Thomas can’t blame Vincent for wanting to run his own searches on the candidates even though Agnes has cut and pasted some highlights pertaining to each one.  By the time Thomas has finished annotating the list according to what Vincent dictates from his seat at the computer, they’ve crossed off two thirds of the list and jotted further questions for Agnes to pursue with the doctors who remain.  Thomas is struck by Vincent’s caution and precision.

Vincent logs off the machine, swiveling the chair toward Thomas.  “Sister Agnes hasn’t come back,” he says, fussing with his zucchetto and mozzetta as if still startled to find that those, like his cassock, are now white rather than red or black.  “I’m worried.  Should we...”

Thomas nods, setting the list, the folder, and the pen neatly on Agnes’s desk.  “The rest of our time until dinner has been blocked for me to give you a tour of the grounds you haven’t seen yet.  That’s a good three or four hours.  We could look for her while we wander.”

“Please,” Vincent says, rising.  “She’s been so strong for so many of us here, but it’s clear that she has not been well supported in her grief.”

“Agnes is private, stubborn, and proud,” Thomas sighs, letting Vincent help him to his feet.  “I’m afraid I understand her too well in that regard.” 

“Thomas,” Vincent says quietly, stepping close to him. He casts a brief glance through the window into the empty hall, and then kisses him.

Thomas pulls Vincent close, unable to deny him this comfort.  “You look like nothing that belongs on this earth,” he whispers when they part.

Vincent adjusts Thomas’s crucifix, pensively pressing it where it falls just above the sash at his waist.  “It feels…incongruous, with you still in red.”

“On the bright side,” Thomas replies, smiling as he reaches for the door to usher Vincent out, “Ray will be able to tell us apart from a distance now.”

“Don’t his glasses do him any good?”

“They’ve needed replacing for years.”

“Maybe if I were to get on his case?”

“Given the little crush he’s caught—”

“Ray?  A crush on me?  That’s absurd—”

“—on you as of late, I think he’d listen.”

They banter comfortably on their way out of the building.  Thomas knows that he ought to have notified the Swiss Guards of their departure from Casa Santa Marta, but given Vincent’s state of overwhelm, he genuinely doesn’t have the heart.  Thomas casts warning glances on the few gawkers who photograph them with their phones from a distance, but thankfully no one approaches them.  They escape into the gardens, because Thomas has a hunch that Agnes is just as likely to have taken refuge among those paths as in her room at the Mater Ecclesiæ.

For a Friday, the gardens are unusually quiet—but then, it is mid-November.  Thomas shivers even in the layers of wool and watered silk that he wears, and Vincent takes his arm as they cross the courtyard that sets them on a trajectory for the turtles’ fountain.  They exchange fond, knowing glances; the memory of their first heart-to-heart as they’d walked back to Casa Santa Marta after the first vote hangs here, pervasive.

Agnes is standing at the fountain—as if there had never been any other place she could possibly have been waiting for them to find her.  She turns.

“Sister,” Vincent says, releasing Thomas’s arm.  He strides ahead to reach her, catching her hands, folded before her with her rosary garlanded about them, in his.  “Forgive us for letting you come out here to pray alone.  We should’ve dropped everything to come with you.”

“Holy Father, Your Eminence,” Agnes greets, her demeanor possessed of the serene restraint that Thomas associates with her regardless of the day or circumstances.  “Think nothing of it.  I wouldn’t have let you follow me.  I needed a word alone with Him.”  She carefully extracts her hands from between Vincent’s, turning back toward the creatures in the water at their feet, pointing at one turtle in particular that’s begun to climb out of the water.  “And with her.  It’s not the same, but I’ve found focusing on a living thing is better than visiting a grave.”

Vincent drops to a crouch without hesitation, gingerly lifting the bewildered turtle out of the water and holding it up closer to Agnes.  “This one specifically?”  He turns its face toward himself, grinning when it takes a snap at him.  “Is there a reason it’s your favorite?”

Thomas finally draws closer, peering at the turtle.  He’s almost certain he recognizes the unusually bold contrast between the lighter and darker pigmented areas along the rim of its shell.  “That’s the one I caught wandering around the Sistine on the day of your ascension.”

“You couldn’t tell Francesca where to go or what to do,” Agnes sighs.  “You can’t do that with this one, either.  I’ve had to put her back more times than I can count.”  She extends a finger, pointing to a sequence of four subtle notches in a row on one marginal shield of the shell.  “See these?  One of the gardeners explained that all of the original gift population from a decade ago had them.  They were made with a drill for identification purposes, so you can distinguish between them.  Fran is one of the survivors, likely the mother of some of the newer ones.”

Vincent widens his eyes, the light in them incandescent as he listens.  “There’s a way to tell them apart?  I need to speak to the gardeners!”  He tilts the turtle closer to his face even though it snaps again, narrowly missing his nose.  “And you already named her?  This is Fran?”

Agnes half smiles at Vincent.  “I’ve been calling her that for a few years now.  You’re the first person I’ve told.  I admit that the conversation at lunch yesterday before our preliminary meeting with Aldo and Ray has me preparing myself to call her something different if you decide—”

“Agnes, we could never,” Thomas cuts in, setting a hand on her shoulder.  “Fran will stay Fran, seeing as you’ve already christened her.”

Agnes crosses herself, but her expression is one of sheer relief.  “I’m not sure I’d call it christening.  There wasn’t Holy Water involved.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to do that,” Vincent says, crouching to place Fran back in the water.  “The others, too, once we decide what they’re called.”

Thomas exchanges dismayed glances with Agnes while Vincent prods another turtle or two, trying to locate which ones have shell notches, and how many.  “That’s another thing we’ll want to keep amongst ourselves,” he says at length.  “Worth scandalizing Ray with it.”

“How many were in the original gift batch?” Vincent asks.  “What kind are they?”

“Around ten, I think,” Thomas replies.  “At least four have been…ah, casualties.”

“Pelusios rhodesianus,” Agnes says, and Vincent looks up at her like she’s hung the moon.  “Rhodesian mud turtles.  I did some cursory research after speaking with the gardener.  They’re very common throughout Southern Africa, not endangered or anything like that.”

Vincent surreptitiously brushes his damp hands on his brand-new white cassock, which…is going to be a persistent issue, Thomas can already tell.  “That’s a relief, because I wouldn’t have felt right keeping them if it had turned out they were rare,” Vincent says.  “I see three with marks right now, which might mean around half of the original ones have survived?”  He tilts his head at Agnes.  “How do you know Fran is female?”

“That’s only my best guess based on a YouTube video and naturalists’ descriptions of sex characteristics of the species,” Agnes replies, shrugging.  “She has a thinner tail and flatter plastron—that’s the bottom side of the shell—than some of the other adults.”

Thomas hasn’t thought about what he knows of Agnes’s pre-ecclesiastical life in so long, but some of it makes sense now in context.  “You told me once that you studied biology as an undergraduate, didn’t you?  I’m pleased to see that interest has never really left.”

Agnes looks like she’d like to smack him upside the head, but she refrains.  “No more than your fixation on literature has left you.”

Vincent just takes in the sniping.  Knowing him, it’ll all turn up later as good-natured blackmail material when he needs a favor.

“I’m supposed to be showing Vincent around the parts of the grounds he hasn’t seen,” Thomas tells Agnes.  “Join us for the walk?”

“Mater Ecclesiæ is at the heart of the gardens,” Agnes reminds Thomas, turning to Vincent.  “Would you like to see where the sisters live?”

Vincent nods earnestly.  “Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Any further business here?” Thomas asks.  “More names?”

Vincent defers to Agnes.  “What do you call the other ones?”

Agnes hesitates.  “I believe the ones with two notches and five notches might also be female, so I started calling them Margery and Julian.”

“And you call me the literature maven?” Thomas asks incredulously.

“Oh, fuck off,” Agnes says, and then crosses herself.  “Point taken.”

“That definitely cuts out some of the work,” Vincent says, satisfied.

“Why did you never tell me you were so fond of them?” Thomas asks.

“You’re a busy man, Eminence,” Agnes sighs, watching Fran begin to climb out of the water at their feet.  “And you always seem exasperated by them getting hit.”  She nudges Fran back with the toe of her shoe.  “I’m glad you have a reason to be mindful of them now.”

“I was exasperated because I hate to see them suffer,” Thomas says, annoyed at himself for having given the impression he dislikes them.

“Summon that exasperation next time you’re at risk of letting yourself suffer,” Vincent suggests, taking Thomas’s arm.  “Sister, lead the way.”

“Sweet of you to make sure an old man doesn’t fall,” Agnes tells Vincent, striding toward the staircase.  “These stones are indeed slippery.”

“Thankfully, I haven’t felt so inclined,” Thomas tells Vincent, ignoring Agnes’s jab at his age. “Not with you on hand as my living reminder.”

Chapter Text

The walkabout with Sister Agnes is pleasant.  Thomas listens while Vincent asks Agnes sincere, fascinated questions about various landscaping and architecture they pass on their way to Mater Ecclesiæ.  On reaching the monastery—which, Agnes explains, is serving as a convent for the time being since different orders are invited to take up residence for blocks of five years at a time—Vincent becomes instantly enchanted by the Fontana dell’Aquilone with its grotto-enshrined and submerged statuary.  He gasps at the sight of tiny, darting fish beneath the surface.

Thomas watches Vincent withdraw his phone from his cassock pocket and snap a photo.  There’s such awe in him over these sights that Thomas takes for granted.  It’s humbling for Thomas to see a place he’d begun to view as a prison through Vincent’s eager, marveling eyes.  

Do you know how precious you are? Thomas wonders as Vincent dips his hand beneath his rippling reflection on the water and a few of the shimmering fish swim into his palm.  How have you survived in the midst of so much hardship, horror, and war with your heart intact?

“The less enchanting aspects of this place will wear on him,” Agnes says under her breath, sidling close to Thomas while Vincent skirts the fountain’s periphery to get a better angle on the statues submerged below the tiny waterfall.  “Promise you’ll bring him out here often.”

“I’m sure he’ll escape as often as he’s able, whether it’s with my assistance or not,” Thomas sighs, smiling as Vincent catches his gaze and comes dashing back.  “What do you think of this place?” he asks.  “Will it suit when you need a breath of fresh air and a change of scenery?”

“I love it.  A little sanctuary frozen in space and time,” Vincent replies earnestly, holding his phone out to Agnes.  “Would you take some of us?”

“Of course, Your Holiness,” Agnes says.  “Why don’t the two of you back up a bit?” she asks, gesturing toward the fountain.  “Sit on the edge.”

Thomas goes willingly when Vincent takes his arm, backpedaling them both to the mossy cobblestone side of the pool.  He sits when it hits the backs of his knees, sliding an arm around Vincent’s waist as he sinks next to him.  They meet each other’s eyes almost shyly.

Flash. Agnes has already taken a shot, perhaps in an attempt to catch that moment.

“Today has been perfect,” Vincent sighs, leaning toward Thomas’s ear.  “Thank you.”

“Don’t say that just yet,” Thomas laughs.  “There’s still dinner with Ray and Aldo.”

Flash.  Agnes has decided to take only candids.  Just as well; Thomas hates posing.

“There’s after dinner, too,” Vincent suggests, even softer still.  “Time for…something you’d let me finish, perhaps?  To show you my appreciation?”

Thomas almost falls backwards into the fountain, but Vincent has an arm braced behind him.  “Now I know you’re doing these things on purpose.”

Flash.  Agnes is smirking at whatever she’s captured on the phone screen this time.

“It didn’t start that way, I promise,” Vincent says, finally turning to properly face the camera and smile as Thomas does the same.  “But when I saw you were still looking at me like that the night you found me with the turtles…”  He shrugs.  “I didn’t want to regret not trying.”

“How did I look at you, exactly?” Thomas asks, suddenly overheated in all of the layers he’s wearing.  “You’re implying I did it that night when I first greeted you in the office, too.  I can’t believe it’s taken me a week, sharing a bed, and a retroactive marriage to actually ask.”

“Like I was trying not to look at you, but I’m no good at hiding how I feel in the moment,” Vincent sighs, tilting his head so that it rests on Thomas’s shoulder.  “I abandoned all hope of trying when I realized you hadn’t caught up with your own thought processes yet.”

Flash.  Agnes lowers the phone, giving them a pointed look.  “Stop that.  Now.”

Vincent withdraws his arm from behind Thomas, getting to his feet.  He turns and helps Thomas rise, which results in them holding hands for what Agnes deems too long.  She marches over, curtly hands Vincent his phone, and then gives them each a smack on the shoulder.

“Hands to yourselves on the way back,” Agnes scolds.  “It’s for your own good.”

“Apologies, Sister,” Thomas says, watching Vincent swipe through the photos.

The phone gets passed around the table at the end of dinner—or, rather, it gets passed from a flustered Thomas to a wide-eyed Ray and an unsurprised Aldo.  While Ray dissociates into visions of the press getting their hands on these, Aldo makes smart-arsed remarks.

“Wedding photos,” Aldo says, a parting shot as he hands the phone back to Vincent.  “That’s the only thing that was missing, huh?  You really did do the whole thing backwards.  If you decide to have a reception, maybe use the one where Thomas almost fell in for the invitation.”

“Speaking of your marriage—to Holy Mother Church—there’s the matter of your ring,” Ray interrupts, and it’s a deft save indeed.  “Thoughts?”

Vincent looks perplexed.  “I’d assumed that someone would put in the order for production as soon as I chose my name, but is that…not the case?”

“Oh, apologies,” Thomas says, realizing that this is one piece of minutiæ that Vincent would have absolutely no reason to know.  “I should’ve explained this.  While the traditional representation on the seal is St. Peter fishing from a boat, there’s design leeway.”

Vincent just looks more bewildered.  “Do you mean to say that no two Popes’ rings have looked the same?  Different materials, different styles?” 

“Some have modeled theirs closely on the rings of the past,” Aldo says, shrugging, “but you can do what you want.  It’ll be engraved with ‘Innocentius XIV’ and some representation of St. Peter, but it’s down to how you want to see that rendered.  Recent ones have run the gamut.  Solid silver, plated in gold, the seal designed by a sculptor.  Cameo carving for the seal.  Plain gold.  Gold set with diamonds…”

Thomas watches Vincent’s distaste grow with each progressive description.  He should’ve foreseen this part of the ceremonial trappings being an even bigger issue than the one where Vincent already feels like an imposition on those who serve him around the clock.

“There are skilled silversmiths in Mexico City,” Vincent says, reining in his frustration.  “I won’t have it gold plated.  As for the saint’s representation, I would like to honor the simplest earlier design that I can find.  I’d like to study as many images as our archives can provide.”

Agnes, fussing with the simple, spinning band ring on her own finger, looks quite pleased.

“That’s entirely reasonable, Holy Father,” Thomas says quietly.  “May we learn restraint.”

Ray has been studiously jotting all of this down.  “I might suggest you take a look at the surviving sketch of the ring belonging to Leo XIII.  The piece briefly went missing in the days following his death in 1903; it made international headlines.  Simple, yet striking.”

“I never heard that story,” Vincent says, his interest clearly piqued.  “Was it found?”

“Yes,” Ray replies, taking the same relish in this as he takes in sharing modern gossip.  “It was located on his writing desk several days later.”

“Find me the image,” Vincent says, and then turns to Thomas, his expression subtly tired and imploring.  “Shall we see if your things have arrived?”

Aldo sits back in his chair and folds his arms, shaking his head at Agnes.  “I can’t believe you pulled that off,” he says with genuine admiration.

“Pulled what off, Eminence?” Agnes asks innocently, raising her eyebrows.  “Arranged for a residential concession out of medical necessity?”

“Right,” Aldo says, gathering his paperwork.  “If reporters catch wind of this, it’s your circus.  Good night.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Vincent steps into Thomas’s personal space as soon as they’re in the elevator, kissing him quick and yearning up against the railing until it lurches to a halt on the second floor.  He strides out as the doors open, as if nothing had just happened, exchanging greetings with the guards.

As soon as the door to their quarters is closed behind them—theirs, theirs, Thomas thinks, his heart racing—Vincent takes note that his desk has been moved into one corner of the living room and hums in approval.  He removes his shoes, giving Thomas a hopeful look.

Thomas takes that as an invitation to do the same.  The action delays him from following Vincent into the room that had once been the office, but when he finally makes it there, he instantly sees why Vincent is frozen there with one hand poised on the doorframe.  Uncanny.

“That’s just…all of your possessions from home?” Vincent asks.  “Your room the way it looked in the Palace of the Holy Office, I imagine?”

Thomas nods.  “That’s…that’s most certainly my bed, bookshelves, dresser…”  He crosses to the closet, peering inside.  “All of it.”

“I don’t know how Agnes accomplishes these things.”  Vincent approaches the bed.  He sets a hand against the dark blue duvet, running his fingers over it reverently.  “Thomas,” he says, turning the gesture into a pointed pat against the mattress.  “Come here, please.”

Thomas doesn’t need to be told twice.  He makes his way from the closet to where Vincent is standing next to the bed.  Taking a seat on the edge, he meets Vincent’s eyes expectantly, shifting back just enough to settle comfortably.  “Is this how you want me, at least to start?”

Vincent inhales sharply and nods once.  “I want you so, so many ways,” he sighs, taking a seat next to Thomas.  He leans close, and for a few minutes, they do nothing but trade sweet, almost awkward kisses.  “But I’ve been wanting you like this for a week.”

“That’s not very specific,” Thomas whispers against Vincent’s lips, and then ducks to kiss his neck just above the collar of his cassock.  That elicits a delightful gasp from Vincent, so Thomas doesn’t stop there.  He sweeps Vincent’s zucchetto off his head.  “Show me?”

“That night, when I felt how much you desired me,” Vincent whispers in Thomas’s ear, stroking him through his cassock, trousers, and boxers, “it felt like a part of the answer to my prayer that I hadn’t known was missing.”  He kisses Thomas’s neck, removes his zucchetto in kind, and then slides off the bed, wincing slightly when his knees hit the floor.  “See?  Not so young.  In any case…”  Vincent starts to unbutton Thomas’s cassock from the bottom up.  “That my beloved could find me beautiful not just in spirit, but also in body, was the only remaining proof I needed that God had made no mistakes in my creation.”  He spreads the fabric wide once he’s unbuttoned it as far as Thomas’s belly, and then unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers, and pulls his bottom layers down and off him all at once.  “And He has definitely made no mistakes in yours.”

“How could He have made you anything other than this,” Thomas replies shakily, and it’s not even a question.  He takes Vincent’s face in his hands as Vincent sets both hands on his bare thighs and massages the insides of them with his thumbs.  “Surely it would’ve run counter to, ah—” Thomas gasps as Vincent leans forward, touching his scarcely parted lips to the head of Thomas’s half-hard cock “—all divine logic.”

Vincent closes his eyes and brings one hand from Thomas’s thigh to wrap around the base of his cock while he kisses it, dipping his tongue in Thomas’s slit once, and then twice, and then again when Thomas groans and jerks beneath the pressure of Vincent’s remaining hand against his hip.  Vincent takes the head fully in his mouth after a few more seconds’ worth of kissing it, suckling with a contented sound somewhere low in his throat.  With Thomas’s fingers threaded in his hair, he looks ethereal and debauched all at once, a vision worthy of Michelangelo’s brush.

Thomas withdraws one unsteady hand from Vincent’s hair and sets it over Vincent’s hand on his hip, twining their fingers.  “If…if you could see yourself now, you’d never want for proof again,” he falters, shaking as Vincent lavishes attention on an especially sensitive spot.

Vincent opens his lovely eyes, the corners crinkling as he laughs around Thomas’s cock.  Mischief suits him in this as much as in everything else. He swallows with visible effort as he takes Thomas an inch deeper, breathing harshly through his nose. Vincent doesn’t have any experience with this—neither one of them does, neither giving nor receiving—but he’s all the more tenderly attentive for needing to take his time.

Thomas feels feverish when his awareness expands again to more than just the searing pleasure of what Vincent is doing.  He’s still in his red regalia, and Vincent is still wearing his brand-new white.  Vincent on his knees is such a revelation that Thomas can’t fathom why this should be any different from that Salve Regina he’d prayed as much to Vincent as to the Mother of God.  He takes such worshipful, exacting care.

Vincent withdraws a fraction when Thomas whimpers, with just the slightest scrape of teeth.  When he realizes that Thomas is close, he pulls off only long enough to catch his breath before closing his lips around the head as he had at the outset, just kissing and coaxing.

“Vincent,” Thomas chokes, and that’s the only warning he manages to give.  He comes helplessly on Vincent’s tongue, relieved when it isn’t all that much.   The sensation in his body, though—that washes deliriously over him, leaves him weak like the onset of fever. 

Vincent coughs in surprise and manages to catch the mess in his palms as he pulls off.  He licks conscientiously at the tip of Thomas’s softening cock, which is enough to make Thomas shiver again and collapse back against the mattress.  He watches Vincent get up and leave the room, relieved when he returns about five minutes later with clean hands and a washcloth.  Thomas can’t believe his cassock has been spared.

“Here,” Vincent says as soon as he’s finished scrubbing Thomas’s belly off, tugging Thomas back into a sitting position so that he can rid him of everything he’s still wearing.  “No damage done,” he continues, although there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own need.

Thomas takes the washcloth away from him, setting it on the nightstand.  He starts to unbutton Vincent’s cassock, still breathing unsteadily.  Vincent’s fingers against his cheek ground him while he works, forcing him to look up.  “Are you…what I mean to say is, was that…”

“Something I’d like to do as often as you’ll let me,” Vincent says earnestly, sighing as Thomas gets his hands beneath his cassock.  “Sí, por favor, rápido,” he breathes, leaning into Thomas as he unbuttons his shirt.  “Won’t last long if I let you…”  Vincent shivers.  “Abrázame.”

Hold me.  Thomas gets Vincent undressed, hoping he’s understood the implication that Vincent is too far gone to withstand the attention of Thomas’s mouth right now.  He climbs onto the bed, settles back against the pillows, and then holds his arms out to Vincent.

Vincent follows him, wincing slightly from the amount of time he’d spent on the floor.  Getting him settled comfortably in Thomas’s lap takes a minute, but he’s stubborn about wanting to straddle him and press flush against Thomas’s chest.  He trembles at the contact.

“Is this what you want?” Thomas whispers, running his fingers through Vincent’s hair.  He runs his other hand from where it’s pressed between Vincent’s shoulder blades down to the small of his back, the touch just as deliberate as the first time he’d ever done it.  “Good?”

“Very,” Vincent whispers back, his breath shaky.  “Very good.”  He winds his arms around Thomas’s shoulders, burying his face in Thomas’s neck.

“You were worth waiting for,” Thomas tells him, overcome with the sense that this is a confession infinitely worth making.  “I would’ve waited—”

“I would’ve found you,” Vincent bites out, moving against Thomas.  “Here or hereafter, amado, I swear.  Please, yes, I—I would’ve waited, too.”

Vincent isn’t doing much more than rock in Thomas’s lap, his cock rubbing against Thomas’s belly.  He nuzzles into the hollow of Thomas’s throat, desperately twining his fingers in the chain of Thomas’s crucifix.  Vincent’s unselfconsciousness in the moment is breathtaking.

“I know,” Thomas reassures, coaxing him.  “You don’t have to wait anymore.”

“I’m,” Vincent gasps, his hips kicking urgently, “Thomas, ah, I’m going to…”

“There, my dear,” Thomas soothes, clutching him closer.  “There you are.”

Vincent shudders, his trembling thighs clamping hard against Thomas’s hips.  He comes in hot spurts against Thomas’s belly, his toes curling against Thomas’s calves.  He twists his fingers in the chain, pulling it painfully tight around Thomas’s neck.

“Fuck,” Vincent gasps, and then he’s seized by another wave of it, crying out against Thomas’s shoulder.  He heaves for breath, undone.

“Oh, love,” Thomas whispers, stroking Vincent’s back in awe.  “That’s right.  Take your time, take all the time you need.  Vincent…”

The wrecked sounds Vincent is making subside as he finally settles and goes limp in Thomas’s arms.  He kisses Thomas’s shoulder, and then looks up before pressing their foreheads together, seemingly unable to articulate whatever he’d like to say.

“Thomas,” Vincent murmurs against Thomas’s lips, and then kisses him with such fierce devotion that the underlying words shine through.

Thomas returns Vincent’s exhausted, sated smile, only he finds that he’s grinning so wide his face hurts.  “It’s all right.  I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Thomas cleans them up and gets them settled.  He’s so drowsily content in the aftermath, so comfortable lying tangled with Vincent beneath the covers of his own bed, that he almost doesn’t register the name Vincent speaks.  But it does send an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

“Tremblay,” Vincent says, running his fingers over Thomas’s chest.  “That’s unresolved.”

“Ah,” Thomas sighs.  He should’ve known they’d pay for their distraction.  “A loose end.”

“Does he owe me a resignation?” Vincent asks, shifting until he’s half on top of Thomas. 

“In theory, he’ll submit it,” Thomas says, sliding his arms around Vincent’s waist.  “In reality, we’ll send reminders and then pry it out of him.”

“This is exactly the kind of thing I need your help with,” Vincent mumbles into Thomas’s neck.  “At least you’ve given him a public reprimand.”

“Just to cover our bases, a meeting with him to reiterate what our late Holy Father requested may be in order.”  When Thomas feels Vincent tense in his arms, he gently strokes his hair.  “Aldo and I can be present if you wish,” Thomas reassures him.  “Tell me what you need.”

“Even if only as witnesses,” Vincent whispers, relieved, “I would appreciate it.”  He kisses Thomas’s shoulder with reverence, clinging to him.  “I pray that this doesn’t seem like weakness, like a sign that you all misjudged me.  More and more, I believe that this role shouldn’t…”

“Many before you have felt alone,” Thomas admits.  “Have felt like prisoners, even.  You’ll never be alone as long as I can help it, and as for the days when this place seems like a gilded cage…”  He kisses Vincent’s temple.  “We’re here to make it seem less so for each other.”

“No place in which I’ve served God has felt like a prison,” Vincent says.  “And no place that I share with you could ever feel like one.”  He sounds sleepy now, the idle movements of his fingers in Thomas’s hair growing intermittent.  “Where you are, He is also.  I’m home.”

Thomas waits until Vincent has fallen asleep to slide his phone off the nightstand and opens his text thread with Agnes.  He dislikes the thought of imposing on her when she’s likely winding down for the night, too.  However, it’s also not that late, and this matter is unavoidable.

TL
Hate to do this, but do you have a minute?

SA
If it’s on His Holiness’s behalf, then yes.

TL
It’s very much on his behalf.  Thank you.

SA
Made appointments with a few of the GPs.

TL
Thanks again.  It’s about our Judas, though.

SA
May the Devil take him.  No resignation yet?

TL
No, but I admit neither of us has followed up.

SA
I ought to have done that on HH’s behalf.

TL
It’s probably just easier to say Vincent.

SA
Not in work correspondence, it’s not.

TL
Stalwart as ever.  Can you set that up?

SA
JT’s resignation?  I can’t do it for him.

TL
I meant a meeting with him.  Monday.

SA
Ah, right.  With what parties present?

TL
Joe, Aldo, Vincent, and me.  Spare Ray.

SA
That’s still too many cooks in the kitchen.

TL
The four of us?  That’s Vincent’s request.

SA
Bless that dear, sweet, overwhelmed man.

Thomas watches Agnes delete the message.

SA
Forgive the typo.  As HH wishes.

TL
He is quite overwhelmed, though.

SA
And dear?  And sweet, even?

TL
He looks so innocent asleep.

SA
The less I know, Thomas.

TL
You bloody asked, Agnes.

SA
Just realized that was a pun.  Awful.

TL
I wondered when you’d catch up.

SA
Stop texting me.  You’ll wake him.

TL
I will.  You have a good night, too.

Thomas kisses the top of Vincent’s head, passing along Agnes’s concern.  This feels normal after only a few days, corresponding with co-workers while using an unconscious Vincent as a phone rest.  He’s about to turn off the lamp and set his phone aside when he receives a text.

RO
Sorry to text after dinner.
Holiness isn’t responding.

TL 
That’s because he’s asleep.
Not sure where his phone is.

RO
You would’ve picked it up?

TL
If I could get up to find it.

RO
Why can’t you?
Never mind.

TL
What do you need, Ray?

RO
There have been questions
concerning when he means
to hold his first Mass here.

TL
Today was taxing for him.

RO
Maybe Sunday morning?

Vincent yawns, stretching in Thomas’s embrace.  “Is everything all right?”

“Sorry to wake you,” Thomas sighs.  “Ray’s getting questions about Mass.”

“If he means one for residents here,” Vincent laments, “I already should’ve—”

“Shhh, rest.  Yes, for residents.  Your first public one isn’t until Christmas.”

“Have him schedule one for tomorrow evening and one for Sunday morning.”

TL
After dinner tomorrow and
before breakfast on Sunday.

RO
Would 7pm and 7am do?

“Seven tomorrow evening and seven Sunday morning?” Thomas relays.

Vincent nods sleepily against Thomas’s shoulder.  “Thank Ray for me.”

TL
Vincent agrees and thanks you.

RO
You didn’t need to wake him.

TL
Turns out he was half awake, Ray.
Finish the schedule and go to bed.

RO
I’ve kept his morning entirely clear,
but there are meetings after lunch.

TL
Please add Mass to the schedule
before you turn in.  Anything else?

RO
There’s the Tremblay problem.

TL
Agnes is handling it.  Monday.

RO
It’ll take a nun to bring him in.
That’s good thinking.  Bless you.

TL
She’ll send the time once it’s set.
You need not go.  Aldo and I will.

RO
May the Holy Father canonize
you both for this act of mercy.

TL
It’s been a long day for you, too.
You’re maudlin.  Get some sleep.

Thomas tosses his phone onto the nightstand, scrubbing a hand over his face.  He meets Vincent’s pensive gaze, which is no longer so sleepy, as Vincent lifts his head and props his chin on his arms against Thomas’s chest.  Thomas tucks Vincent’s hair behind his ears.

“I didn’t mean to disrupt your sleep, my dear,” Thomas sighs.  “I truly didn’t.”

Vincent shakes his head patiently.  “You didn’t,” he says with an adoring smile.

“How can you—” Thomas exhales, overcome with awe “—look at me like that?”

“Because you’re very pleasing to look at,” Vincent replies.  “Beyond pleasing.”

“You can’t find me as attractive as I find you,” Thomas demurs, regretting it because of how sad it makes Vincent look.  “Not aesthetically, I mean?”

Vincent lifts his head from his forearms and extends his hand toward Thomas’s face, setting one fingertip against Thomas’s cheekbone.  He traces up to the outer corner of Thomas’s eye with care, lingering there with the firm, but delicate touch of his calloused fingertips.

“Do you know how handsome you are?” Vincent asks in that soft, forgiving tone he’d used in the moments they’d shared after his election.  He leans forward for a kiss.  “Have you looked in a mirror?” Vincent whispers with a hint of laughter between kisses, sliding his fingers into Thomas’s thinning hair, and then kisses him again, deeper this time.  He gasps when Thomas clutches his hips.  “Ojos celeste—” Vincent swallows another quiet ah “—eyes like the sky.”  He writhes against Thomas, already hard against Thomas’s belly.  “Tu mirada es más profunda que el mar.”

Your gaze is as deep as the sea.  Thomas wants to curse his body for not responding the way it had earlier.  But, as he continues to kiss an increasingly restless Vincent, he decides that’s no hardship given that the man in his arms deserves every shred of attention he can spare.

“And you’re so beautiful,” Thomas whispers against Vincent’s cheek, “that I wondered how you could possibly be real when I saw you sitting there asleep.”  He kisses along Vincent’s jaw, thrilled when Vincent moans into the pillow over Thomas’s shoulder, thrusting desperately against the firm grasp Thomas has on his hips.  He nips Vincent’s neck, startling them both into laughter.  “You have a face that deserves to be painted by one of our Renaissance masters, I thought,” Thomas murmurs, sobering again quickly, “and that was before you’d even opened your eyes.”

“I don’t understand how they let you into seminary with that mouth,” Vincent pants, trembling as his cock leaks damp traces against Thomas’s skin.

Thomas slides his palm up Vincent’s spine, tangling his fingers in Vincent’s hair.  “What do you need?” he asks.  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t give.”

“Put your mouth on me,” Vincent begs quietly.  “Please?”

“Shhh, Vincent,” Thomas murmurs.  “Of course I will.”

Vincent goes pliant as Thomas rolls him onto his back, gazing up at Thomas as he arranges the pillows behind him.  “What happened next?”

Thomas dips to nip the other side of his neck, both for symmetry’s sake and to feel Vincent’s body jolt under him at the sensation.  “When?”

“When I opened my eyes.”

“I just…got lost in them.”

“Like love at first sight?”

“You work miracles.”

“I’m only human.”

“Miraculous to me.”

“Mmm,” Vincent hums as Thomas kisses from the hollow of his throat down to his chest, sprawling to make more room for Thomas where he’s kneeling not without considerable discomfort between Vincent’s spread thighs.  “Sweet-talker.  Is this a seduction?”

Thomas scoffs at Vincent with mock offense, trailing a few more wet kisses from his sternum to his belly.  “You only just noticed?” he teases back.

Vincent inhales as Thomas presses the next kiss against the underside of his cock, petting Thomas’s hair with shaking fingers.  “Amado.”

“Feels good?” Thomas asks, cupping Vincent’s cock in his palm to keep it steady.  He kisses the same spot again, following with a slow lick.

“Yes,” Vincent whimpers, squirming against the sheets.  “Don’t—don’t tease.”

“I won’t,” Thomas says, glancing up at Vincent, and then takes him in his mouth.

Vincent presses the back of his right hand to his mouth and swallows a sob, grasping at the sheets with his left.  His teeth catch in the rosary wrapped around his wrist before Thomas manages to pull his hand away and clasp it reassuringly.  Vincent cries out softly.

Thomas brings Vincent’s hand down to press against his cheek, closing his eyes so that he doesn’t risk any distraction.  He focuses on the precious heat that pulses against his tongue—the traces of salt already gathered at the tip as he swallows them down, Vincent’s tender skin where his lips are closed around the base.  Thomas feels Vincent’s free hand curl around the back of his neck, massaging there with a startling lack of urgency now that Thomas’s mouth is where he wants it.  He lets Vincent’s cock slide partway out of his mouth, worshipfully suckling the head.

“Thomas, wait,” Vincent gasps.  He comes without further warning, arching off the bed as Thomas presses a hand to the small of his back.  “Ah.”

Thomas isn’t as graceful pulling off Vincent’s cock as Vincent had been pulling off his.  Fortunately, there’s just as little mess, so at most he drips a damp patch on the sheets as Vincent makes a clumsy grab for the tissues and wipes Thomas’s lips and chin for him.

“You made it look so easy,” Thomas says in consternation, prying the tissues out of Vincent’s hand.  He sets them on the nightstand, licking his lips, and then pulls a few fresh ones.  “Lie back,” he insists, pressing Vincent into the pillows again, and starts to wipe him off.

“Easy?” Vincent echoes, pulling Thomas down on top of himself as soon as he’s finished with the tissues.  “Beginner’s luck.”  He kisses Thomas gratefully.  He slips a hand between them to touch Thomas, just as attentive as he’d be if Thomas was hard.  “Are you all right?”

“It was your turn,” Thomas reassures him, “and even if you hadn’t taken care of me earlier…”  He kisses Vincent’s closed eyelids, and then gathers him close.  “I wouldn’t have done a thing differently,” Thomas murmurs in his ear.  “In sickness and in health, remember?” 

Vincent hugs him, nodding in agreement.  He heaves a contented sigh, but it fades into a yawn as Thomas coaxes him to roll onto his side.

“Ray has kept the morning clear,” Thomas says, turning out the light.  He settles against the warmth of Vincent’s back, curling an arm around him.

“Meetings after lunch, and then evening Mass?” Vincent asks sleepily, as if they’d never stopped discussing his schedule.  “So, that’s the plan?”

“Yes, my dear,” Thomas soothes, his eyelids heavy.  “Go to sleep.”

“Tú también, amor de mi vida,” Vincent mumbles into the pillow.

You too, love of my life.  Thomas twines their fingers and drifts off.

The next morning, Vincent wakes Thomas with prayer, his rosary once again wrapped around both of their wrists.  Thomas can’t help but find it moving that Vincent has found a way to make this most private of devotions one that they now share.  They make love with the words still half-formed on their lips—the Salve Regina delivered again, between Thomas’s fervent kisses pressed to Vincent’s belly, to the secret they keep.

At lunch, while Ray talks Vincent through the individuals he’s meeting with and why, Aldo fixes Thomas with another of his I-can’t-believe-you’re-getting-away-with-this looks.  Thomas clears his throat and dutifully focuses on eating what’s on the plate Agnes has brought for him.

That afternoon’s meetings are Vincent’s first in his office at the Apostolic Palace.  They go smoothly enough, although Thomas is relieved that Vincent is getting this dry run ahead of what awaits him Monday.  However, none of today’s routine appointments are reprimands.

By dinner, Vincent is withdrawn—he’s quiet by nature, but Thomas can already tell his silences apart.  He’s mentally worn-out and doubting himself again.  Agnes fusses over both of them, although her focus on Vincent is welcome given that he’s the one not readily eating.

“You need strength for Mass, Your Holiness,” Agnes points out.

“I appreciate your concern, Sister,” Vincent says.  “I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” Agnes hisses, tapping the back of his head as she moves to return to the kitchen.  “If not for yourself, for His Eminence.”

Thomas sighs apologetically once she’s gone.  “I won’t guilt-trip you.  That’s not how it works when you’re making sure I eat.  Do what you can.”

“Nothing I say will match your sermon,” Vincent says hesitantly, sipping his coffee.  “You were eloquent.  You are eloquent.  My words are blunt.”

“There’s eloquence in your forthrightness, Holiness,” Thomas replies.  “What you accomplished after Tedesco’s invective…I couldn’t have done it.”

“You’re settling in,” Aldo reminds Vincent reassuringly.  “Everyone who’ll be attending, we just want to welcome you.  Think of it as a homecoming.”

“I’m not one for delivering pep talks,” Ray admits.  “I’ll leave that to Their Eminences,” he says, indicating Aldo and Thomas.  “You’ll be just fine.”

Vincent’s first Mass at Casa Santa Marta isn’t just fine—it’s a stunning success.  Thomas has never seen the tiny chapel so full, and once Vincent gets started, there’s no trace of anxiety or doubt left in him.  When Thomas takes Communion for the first time at Vincent’s hand, it feels like an affirmation of every vow they’ve made to each other in the new and fragile sanctuary that Agnes has worked so diligently to secure for them.

Sunday Mass is even more crowded, drawing sisters from across the gardens at Mater Ecclesiæ.  Vincent seems drained, but elated at the conclusion of the service.  Thomas stays close while he greets attendees afterward.  Vincent refuses to leave until he’s exchanged words with everyone.  As much as Thomas wants to make him rest for more than the few hours they return to their suite after breakfast, he insists that they spend the rest of the day visible.  That turns into stationing themselves in the dining room from the start of lunch until the end of dinner.

Agnes, Aldo, and Ray finally come to join Thomas and Vincent for coffee around seven o’clock.  That’s about the time when it’s finally clear that their table is done playing host to a revolving number of well-wishers and other curious parties from not just Santa Marta and Mater Ecclesiæ, but also a handful of other residences around the Vatican.  When Agnes tries to serve everyone, Ray tells her to sit down and does it instead.

“Cardinal Tremblay is your first appointment tomorrow,” Agnes says to Vincent as conversationally as she can once Ray has finished ferrying cups and saucers to the table.  “I tried to steer him toward one of your afternoon slots, but he insisted on starting you off.”

Ray unhappily makes a note of that on his clipboard.  “I’ll add it to your schedule by morning,” he sighs, and then gulps half of his coffee at once.

Vincent just nods, stirring milk and sugar into his cup with a glazed-over look.  “I hope he’s under no illusions about what’s going to happen.”

“It’s already happened to him once.  Then, there were the private reminders and, when those failed, public reprimands I gave him during the conclave,” Thomas points out, unsuccessfully curbing his annoyance at the absent party.  “That ought to have been more than enough!”

“Thomas,” Vincent says calmly, taking his hand beneath the table.  “I know.”

“You don’t have to be present for it,” Aldo says.  “I can be meaner than you.”

“I don’t want to be mean about it,” Vincent cautions.  “I’d prefer to be firm.”

“With respect, Eminence Lawrence has been nothing but firm,” Agnes sighs.

“Then how about we send you in?” Ray suggests, only half tongue-in-cheek.

Agnes shrugs.  “I’d gladly go, but, as no sister is involved, you know I can’t.”

Thomas squeezes Vincent’s hand.  “Aldo and I will be present for it as planned.”

Even after a shared shower in which nothing more untoward than Thomas washing Vincent’s hair for him happens, Vincent has trouble falling asleep.  After an hour of tossing and turning, Thomas turns on the lights, urges Vincent out of bed, and moves them to the larger bed in Vincent’s room.  The mattress is better, and the fraction of increased space does make a difference.  Vincent is out within twenty minutes.

The next morning, Ray hands over a hard copy of Vincent’s schedule at breakfast, apologetic about it being another handful of diplomatic meetings in Vincent’s office at the Apostolic Palace instead of internal affairs that can be scheduled for his home office space.  This means that Joe had known what he was doing when he pressed Agnes to schedule him for earlier: upping his chances of Vincent being even more uncomfortable.

Thomas, Vincent, and Aldo have barely gotten out of the private car and settled into Vincent’s office when there’s a knock at the door.  Aldo answers it, and sure enough, it’s Joe Tremblay more than half an hour early for his appointment.  Glaring in irritation, Aldo shows Joe to the chair across from Vincent’s desk and sits back down next to Thomas in one of the two chairs set along the wall parallel to the desk’s shorter side.

“Cardinal Tremblay,” Vincent says graciously, offering his hand across the desk.  “Apologies for the early hour.”  Thomas has to admire the unvoiced passive-aggression in that remark.  “Thank you for taking some time out of your schedule to meet with me this morning.”

Joe gives Thomas a cursory glance, and then studies the Holy Father’s face as he shakes his hand.  “Thank you for inviting me here, Your Holiness,” Joe says, releasing Vincent’s hand after a beat.  “Pope Innocent,” he continues thoughtfully.  “I suppose it does suit Your Holiness, insofar as public image is concerned.”  Joe glances at Thomas again.  “His Eminence hasn’t been too terrible a roommate, I hope?”

Vincent’s gaze turns guarded even though his expression remains kind.  “Cardinal Lawrence has sacrificed much to assist in my transition and to ensure my safety,” he replies.  “I’m most blessed that he has agreed to commit his time and his presence as my equal in the service of God.”

“May he continue to serve as an example to us all,” Joe replies, deceptively amiable, and then tilts his head a fraction.  “But…your safety, Holy Father?  Have the Swiss Guards currently assigned to the doors of your residence proved incompetent?  I can have a word with—”

“I suffer from mild migralepsy, Eminence,” Vincent interrupts.  “While the seizures are controlled by medication, it seems that no risk to my person is acceptable.  It wouldn’t be appropriate to board two guards in my suite, nor is there room.  However, Thomas has said that the former office, while cramped, suits his needs.”  He abruptly leans forward as Joe opens his mouth to say something else, silencing him.  “Thomas’s health has been more at risk than mine these past few years, I’m given to understand.  It’s agreeable, not to mention economical.”

“Economical, Your Holiness?”

“No additional pay required.”

“Neither of you is a nurse.”

“Neither of us requires one.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Joe presses, his stubbornness on display, “but you just said—”

“A precaution while we both have the stability,” Vincent replies.  “This matter is closed.”

Joe shoots a poisonous glance at Thomas.  “There’s no end to your depravity.  Wasn’t orchestrating one round of disgrace for me sufficient?”

“Eminence, would you please do yourself a favor and take it gracefully?” Aldo asks.

Before Thomas can snap at Joe, Vincent speaks.  “I’ve called you here to request the submission of your resignation.  Not Cardinal Lawrence.”

“Lawrence,” Joe echoes, Thomas’s name bitter with laughter on his lips.  “Not Thomas?”

“You could’ve saved yourself this round by submitting it when it was due,” Thomas says.

Vincent looks livid with fury beneath his placid façade, and Thomas knows it’s because Joe is making a more blatant threat right out of the gate than even Goffredo would have the gall to do.  “You’re in no position to be making assumptions given the thorough financial documentation and eyewitness testimonies we have concerning your misconduct,” he says carefully.  “I certainly hope that assumptions are all that you’re making.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare make threats,” Joe sighs.  He gestures at Thomas.  “I thought I’d give you a little taste of what’s to come, though.”

“What’s to come is what has come for literally every Pope there’s ever been,” Aldo replies.  “If it’s not you bellyaching, it’ll be Tedesco.”

“Tedesco might already be saying it,” Joe points out.  “How long before he yaps to the paparazzi, and then it’s in the tabloids?”

“Don’t waste our time,” Thomas scolds him, even though his heart rate escalates.  “When can His Holiness expect your letter?”

“Letter?” Joe asks, playing the put-upon martyr.  “This has been farcical enough.  Surely I don’t need to bother with that.”

Vincent shrugs.  “Then Ray will write it, you will sign it, I will accept it, and Sister Agnes will have you on a plane back to Canada within the week.”

“Hold on, Your Holiness,” Aldo replies graciously.  “I wouldn’t dream of burdening Ray with this in his absence.  I’ll gladly be the one to write it.”

Joe glances from Vincent to Aldo, and then back to Vincent.  Thomas finds his defeated expression so satisfying that he half wishes it wouldn’t be inappropriate to take out his phone and snap a photograph to text to Agnes and Ray.  He slumps even lower and says, “Fine.”

“That’s settled,” Vincent says, making no effort to disguise his ire with Joe.  “You may go.”  He looks at Aldo.  “Anything to discuss before my next?”

“We might toss around some ideas regarding your first official trip abroad,” Aldo suggests.  “I know it feels like early days, but you should consider hitting the road next summer at the latest.  Your last several predecessors traveled so much that you’re facing great expectations.”

Vincent glances at Thomas in excitement that seems to take the edge off his anger.  “Won’t it be wonderful to see so many new people and places?”

Joe rises from his seat, his expression deadpan.  “Traditionally, the Dean of the College of Cardinals doesn’t travel abroad with the Holy Father.”

“Nevertheless, he will,” Aldo says.  “So will I, as my role requires.  In our absences, Monsignor O’Malley and Sister Agnes are more than capable—”

“They wouldn’t be coming with us?” Vincent asks, looking unexpectedly sorry that he’s said it when Joe gives him an unabashedly patronizing look.

“You say that like you already have a destination in mind, Your Holiness,” Joe replies, smiling disingenuously.  “Where’ll the first visit be, then?”

Vincent’s dark eyes turn piercing.  “The itinerary hasn’t been finalized, but we’re in early stages of planning a tour on the other side of the Atlantic,” he replies.  “No Pope has visited the Indigenous and Spanish-speaking Four Corners region of North America since John Paul II.  Even then, he only made stops in Arizona and Colorado.  I’d like to rectify this by starting the tour with several days in Santa Fé, New Mexico—I’m told the Basilica of St. Francis overlooking the plaza is breathtaking, as one of the sites honoring St. Kateri Tekakwitha—and continue from there.”

“I suppose John Paul’s three visits to Canada remain enough to hold us for another few decades,” Joe says, heading for the door.

Vincent glances at Aldo.  “Had I not mentioned heading north from there in order to visit St. Kateri’s formal shrine in Kahnawake?”

Aldo, who has heard as much about this as Thomas (i.e. exactly nothing), nods with impressive equanimity.  “You had, Holiness.”

“As if the so-called penitential circuit hasn’t already been covered,” Joseph replies.  “I thought that highlighting scandals was the last thing we—”

Thomas rises, crosses to the door, and opens it, trembling with fury he hasn’t felt since distributing those files during the conclave.  “Joe, get out.”

Vincent watches Joe exit, conflicted.  “Impertinence notwithstanding, I’m not even sure that I feel right about having Agnes send him home.”

“Leave it with me,” Aldo says, shuffling papers.  “I’ll find the whitest rural parish possible and exile him in Newfoundland or somewhere like that.”  He clears his throat, giving Vincent a weary glare.  “As for the specifics of your first official trip abroad, that’s news to me.”

Vincent rubs his forehead.  “Sorry.  I shouldn’t have made such claims, what when you and I haven’t discussed this.  My pride got the better of me.”

“I mean, I took notes,” Aldo points out, standing up.  “That can be the first item of business when you and I meet tomorrow.  Can’t start too early.”

“Many Popes’ first visits abroad have been within their earliest months of service,” Vincent says.  “Perhaps it’s ambitious, but…after Easter?”

Aldo blinks at him, and then turns for the door.  “You’re not messing around, are you,” he says.  There’s an edge to his voice Thomas likes to hear.

Once they’re alone, Thomas strides to Vincent’s desk, rounds to Vincent’s side, and sits on the edge.  “For what it’s worth?  That’s inspired.”  

“It’s partly selfish, Santa Fé as a launching point,” Vincent admits.  “I’ve always wanted to see the Miraculous Staircase in Loretto Chapel.  It’s going to be a headache for Agnes to arrange a visit while we’re there given that the site is a private museum in the present day rather than an operational church where Masses are held.”  He twists both hands in his rosary, glancing down at his lap.  “Although, I’ve read that it’s also…”

“It’s also what?” Thomas asks.  He shifts off the desk and gets down on his knees in front of Vincent, spinning Vincent’s chair to fully face him.

“A wedding venue,” Vincent blurts.  “Not that our visit could overtly be such a thing.  But since Aldo’s going, I don’t see why he couldn’t bless—”  

Thomas kisses Vincent.  “Are you mad?” he whispers in disbelieving joy.  

Vincent nods.  “You knew what I was from the moment you spoke to me.”

“Trouble without end,” Thomas says, pulling him close.  “I love you for it.” 

Chapter Text

Thomas can’t turn Aldo, Ray, and Agnes away when they follow him and Vincent upstairs after dinner with an unopened bottle of the house red and a corkscrew.  If Agnes is feeling punchy enough to have stolen both of those from the kitchen, then Thomas is nobody to argue.  After Joe and every other appointment after him, it’s been a long day, and there’s also still some hard liquor left over from their suite’s last occupant.

Before Thomas knows it, four of them are down to the black plainclothes they wear beneath their vestments, and Agnes’s veil is off.  The latter phenomenon, he’s only seen on two previous occasions, and Agnes had never left it off for more than a few minutes.  He’s not sure at what point she’d cut her hair short, but it’s probably a lot easier than having to put it up all the time.  They’ve nearly blown through the bottle of wine.

“Hey, Vincent, so—as your brother-in-law, can I ask you something?” Aldo begins cautiously, swilling the wine in his glass, but Thomas can already tell that he’s tipsy enough for the forthcoming question to be a potentially intrusive one.  He raises his eyebrows inquisitively at Vincent.

Vincent glances reassuringly at Thomas, patting his hand against the sofa cushion, and then turns his gaze back on Aldo.  “Of course.  Go ahead.”  

“How were you able to decide so swiftly and definitively that you were all-in for this rabblerouser?” Aldo asks in awe.  Thomas realizes Aldo isn’t just tipsy; he’s too drunk to even put mischief behind this.  “I absolutely understand how Thomas fell for you, because that only took three minutes.  I watched it happen from the other side of the office window before asking you two to come to dinner…then Thomas asked you to pray, and the rest is history.”  Thomas can hear a hint of teasing creep into Aldo’s voice.  “Just…was it the jet lag clouding your judgment?”

“Aldo,” Thomas interjects warningly, but everyone else is laughing, even Vincent.  “Should I take this as a sign that I need to cut you off?”

“You spoilsport, please don’t,” Ray protests with an edge of disappointment, taking a swig of his own wine.  “He’s just so much fun like this.”

“Thomas, it’s all right,” Vincent says, squeezing his hand, but his eyes remain on Aldo.  “The chain of causality began before I left Afghanistan.  I was incredibly torn when the Italian Embassy contacted the Mission, notifying me of His Holiness’s death.  Three weeks until the conclave was to be held?  That’s not even a month.  I prayed for two and a half weeks of that time before I felt confident of the answer.  That left me only a few days to say my goodbyes and make certain arrangements.  I knew that I wouldn’t be returning to Kabul, so I coordinated with the rest of the Mission leadership to promote the person who I’d designated as my successor some time ago in the event of my death.  In a place like that, you can’t be too prepared.” He pauses, taking a steadying breath when Thomas twines their fingers.  “In time, I suppose I’ll name him a cardinal in pectore just as our Holy Father did with me.  In any case, I did as much as I could to give them and myself closure.  It was…not easy, as you can imagine.”

Agnes crosses herself, and then knocks back what’s left of her whiskey.  “Had to go and put your foot in it, didn’t you?” she says to Aldo.

“It’s fine,” Vincent replies.  “This is a story I would’ve told all of you sooner than not, especially given how much you’ve risked to close ranks and protect what I’ve—” he draws Thomas’s hand up to his lips, closing his eyes “—what we’ve found.”  Vincent stays like that, as if seeking strength from Thomas, or maybe apologizing for what he’s about to confess.  “So, I came here with nothing, knowing I could never go back.  My previous life of service, everything I’d built?  Closed to me, gone the instant I walked into that airport.  I spent those long flights thinking about what would come next, after the conclave.  I supposed it was even odds that the new Holy Father would either send me back to Mexico, or into another war-torn place given my experience, or that he might…find out what his predecessor knew, and maybe end my service in the Church altogether.”

“I never would’ve done that to you, just so we’re clear,” Aldo says vehemently, setting his wine glass down on the coffee table.  “Thomas wouldn’t have done that, either, not with the posthumous reassurance that came with you.  And not with me scolding him about his doubt latching onto this for a hot second, because I’m sure that it did…or that it would’ve if he hadn’t already fallen in love with you.  Are we getting to that part?”

Vincent laughs, pressing a kiss against Thomas’s knuckles before lowering both of their hands to his lap.  “This is the part where I arrive, dead on my feet with a letter in hand, and Ray runs to fetch Thomas while I’m falling asleep in the office.”  He looks at Thomas, so steadfast that it makes Thomas’s chest ache.  “You didn’t just offer unconditional welcome where others had met me with suspicion.  You took the time to talk to me, to reassure me.  Make me feel at ease.  Make me smile.  And, of course, it’s like I told you.  Those eyes didn’t hurt.”  Vincent flushes.  “I knew then that I was going to vote for him.  I knew that I was going to vote for him as many times as it took.  That was even before Agnes gave me access to the office when I told her I had a headache so that I could get away with playing him a song we both like.  Yes, I lied to arrange a second date.”

“You’re counting Thomas greeting you on arrival and asking you to bless the food as the first date, because of course you are,” Aldo remarks, rubbing his eyes.  “Turns out Vatican speed dating is totally a thing under the right conditions.  Wonder who hooked up during the last conclave.”

“Statistically, at least a couple,” Ray says reasonably, gesturing at Thomas and Vincent.  “They can’t have been the first.  We’ll just never know.”

“Well, there was more of it this time around than there should’ve been thanks to Joe’s underhanded meddling,” Thomas sighs.  “That other instance being less than happy for both parties involved, granted.  I still…”  He shakes his head, stroking the back of Vincent’s hand with his thumb.  “I still can’t believe you were there at my side the next morning when I circulated those documents.  That you approved of my decision to do so.”

“Not that supporting your actions would’ve been contingent upon our third date falling the night before,” Vincent replies wryly, “but it did help.”

Agnes gives Thomas a strange look.  “You were in the Holy Father’s rooms, in here, for several hours looking for those papers.  When did you…”

Thomas stares at Aldo, who’s regarding him in shock.  He’s been found out; he’ll never live this down.  “I was with Vincent right before that.”

Ray opens his mouth before Aldo can, abruptly in gossip mode.  “You were with Vincent as in—”

“As in, I was in his room asking him to vote for Tremblay!” Thomas protests.  “As Aldo asked!”

Agnes gets up and crosses the room in a hurry, intent upon refilling her glass.  “Not my circus.”

Aldo folds his arms and smirks, shaking his head at Thomas.  “So, you seduced him out of voting for you again?  Do you realize how insane—”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Vincent explains.  “The discussion about voting was over by then.  I seduced him that night.  He got my vote every time.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Aldo says, muffled as he covers his face with both hands.

Ray seems lost in thought for a few seconds, and then concludes, “Small mercies.”

Thomas focuses on the latter, because at least Ray isn’t freaking out.  “How so?”

“It means there’s no chance you bribed me,” Vincent clarifies.  “I can’t be bought.”

“No, but you can clearly fuck my best friend into unprecedented feats of acting on his conscience!” Aldo bursts out, scandalized, but impressed.  “Those photocopies were an act of extreme integrity even for you, Thomas!  Thanks for driving the last nail into that coffin, Agnes.”

“Any time,” Agnes mumbles into her glass, gulping whatever she’s poured into it.

“I had no idea what he was going to do,” Vincent demurs, a touch unconvincingly.

“You knew that I was going to do something before I did,” Thomas replies, deadpan.

Vincent shrugs.  “All I knew was that you’d be up all night.  You deserved a break.”

Aldo sits up straight, realizing something.  “You never believed it would be Tremblay.”

Vincent shakes his head.  “I could see that God was clearing a path for Thomas.”

“Agnes,” Ray says, raising his voice a fraction.  “Can you bring the decanter?”

“You read my mind,” Agnes mutters gratefully.  She returns, whiskey in tow.

“You’re both out of your goddamn minds,” Aldo says.  “You know that, right?”

“That night gave me the rest of the clarity I needed, too,” Vincent continues.  “When I realized that Thomas would likely find a way of exposing Tremblay for…what he is, I knew where the tide had a high chance of turning.  I knew what would come next.  I’d stay here in Rome and serve Pope John until my last breath.”  He shrugs.  “Or until his, whichever came first.  That explosion, it almost…well.  It almost did take him first.”

“You thought your positions would be the reverse of what they are now,” Aldo sighs.  “As of the bomb that finally intruded on us, so did I.”  He jabs a finger at Thomas.  “Also, hah!  See?  You told him the name you would’ve wanted to be called before you saw fit to tell me!”

Thomas shakes his head in protest.  “Aldo, I swear that it’s not what you—”

“Oh, he hadn’t chosen,” Vincent confirms.  “I told him that’s who he’d be.”

“I’m sorry, this is…”  Aldo finally starts laughing.  “Thomas, only you would let a guy tell you on the third date what to call yourself as Pope.”

“I’ll bet His Holiness made a very compelling argument,” Agnes says dryly.

Vincent leans close to Thomas’s ear while the other three continue to laugh.  “I would’ve talked my way into staying here with you even if neither of us had been elected,” he says quietly.  “You don’t last as long as I have in places like Baghdad and Kabul if you’re not persuasive.”

Thomas kisses him.  This is the first time they’ve shared more than casual touches in front of anyone, and the others have been so irritating for the past ten minutes that they deserve to get an eyeful of what they’ve been protecting.  The room goes silent as Vincent leans into it.

“You’re one of the bravest men I’ve ever met,” Vincent whispers as their audience decides that the appropriate response is clapping and whistling.

“What you’ve seen isn’t courage as such,” Thomas whispers back, grinning.  “It’s just that you’re enough of a pain in the arse to make me reckless.”

Chapter Text

By Thursday night, Vincent seems less stressed as a result of the endless diplomatic meetings through which Aldo has taken over guiding him on the days when Thomas isn’t guiding him through the ecclesiastical ones.  However, Thomas’s nerves have spiked since there’s now just over a month until Vincent’s first major public Mass.  The text that wakes Thomas on Friday morning is too keen a reminder; his pulse skyrockets.

GT
Come stai, Tommaso?
Sei già sopraffatto?

TL
Scusa, you’re asking
if I’m overwhelmed?

GT
Of course.  Who else?

TL
Disonesto, Goffredo.

GT
Call me disingenuous when
you’re the one on a leash?

TL
I’m not the one who will
be giving Midnight Mass
in front of 7,000 people.

GT
I suppose in Kabul
it was more like 7.

TL
Keep this up, and I’ll
block your number.

GT
Fine, fine.  So touchy.
Sua Santità, is he the
overwhelmed one?

Even though Goffredo is now asking about the right person, Thomas is nevertheless unimpressed.  He’s more than slightly annoyed that he’s being distracted from time that he’d prefer to spend quietly appreciating Vincent’s warmth in his arms before the world intrudes on them.

Vincent stirs in his sleep, twitching against Thomas’s shoulder.  He mouths at Thomas’s skin, not quite kissing it, nuzzling and sighing when Thomas kisses his forehead.  “Es demasiado pronto,” Vincent mumbles.  “È troppo presto.”  The switch to Italian is a surprise.  It’s too early.

“Show-off,” Thomas murmurs.

Vincent furrows his brow.  “No.”

“Shhh,” Thomas replies.  “Sí.”

Vincent huffs, still unconscious.

TL
You had it right before.
His Holiness is calm.

GT
Hah, then why make
me stand on ceremony
and inquire after him?

TL
Because it’s polite.

GT
You Englishmen!
So, wait a minute.

TL
A minute for what?

GT
Then you watch his
meetings and not
the turtle after all?

TL
Fran.

GT
Fran?

TL
That’s the turtle.

GT
You did name it?

TL
Why wouldn’t we?

GT
I thought you two
were having me on.

TL
Oh, we were.
Agnes wasn’t.

GT
The nun.  Why
let her name it?

TL
She’d done that
long before we
thought to try.

GT
Wait, Fran as in
Francesca, that
sister who died?

TL
Agnes and Francesca
were close.  I thank
God that it was so.

GT
Close much like you
and our Santo Padre.

Thomas stares at his phone in sheer annoyance.  He has no idea if this is just Goffredo being Goffredo, or if word has already reached Venice concerning his and Vincent’s living arrangements.  The Devil works hard, but the Patriarch’s informants work harder.

Vincent, more awake than he’d been letting on, snatches Thomas’s phone and blinks groggily at the screen.  He scrolls back and forth in the exchange a few times, his quick, dark eyes doing some calculations that can only mean trouble for Thomas’s concentration.

“Wouldn’t he like to know,” Vincent says.  He hands the phone back to Thomas and ducks under the covers.  “I can make this pleasant, at least.”

“Vincent!” Thomas hisses, but it’s too late.  He’s scooted down between Thomas’s thighs and parted them, lazily licking Thomas’s still-soft cock.

“Don’t mind me.  This could take a little while anyway, right?” Vincent asks, muffled.

“How did they ever let you into seminary with a head full of these ideas?” Thomas asks.

“Oh, I hadn’t formed them yet,” Vincent mumbles between teasing licks.  “Late bloomer.”  He hums, pleased, when sucking the head of Thomas’s cock into his mouth finally gets results.  “Aldo says you’d already formed yours, though.  Did you…did you ever…”

Thomas almost drops his phone as Vincent teases him halfway to hardness.  “With Aldo?  No, but there might’ve been an incident involving…”  He tries to type a response to Goffredo, but Vincent makes that tricky.  “Involving a flight of communion wine and a kiss.”

“A flight of communion wine as in sampling more than one kind at once?  That activity exists?”

“If you’re a bored seminary student in London with a wealthy American classmate, then yes.”

“I would ask if Aldo was the life of the party, but he’s already told me that was you.  Relax.”

TL
What do you need
from me, Goffredo?
I’m running late.

GT
I wanted to ask if
my usual room is
free for the last
week of Advent.

“Shit,” Thomas mutters, and then slides a hand beneath the covers to stroke Vincent’s hair.  “Not you, my dear.  Oh, that feels—that’s lovely.”

Vincent stops what he’s doing and presses a wet kiss against Thomas’s belly.  He peers up when Thomas peels the covers back.  “What is it?”

“Don’t know how I forgot to mention that Goffredo joins us for the holidays,” Thomas sighs, letting his head fall back as Vincent continues.

Vincent hums intently, kissing Thomas’s hip the next time he pulls off.  “Checking my progress under the guise of one of his annual visits?”

“Something like that.  Vincent, bless you, but I might not…”

“Shhh, Thomas.  Does it make you feel good anyway?”

“Oh, love.  I’d stay in bed with you all day if I could.”

“There’s that mouth of yours.  Use it on me after this?”

TL
I don’t see why it wouldn’t
I’ll tell Agnes to hold it.

GT
You seem distracted, Tommaso.

TL
You’re keeping me from prayer.

GT
How thoughtless of me.  Ciao.

Thomas drops his phone over the side of the bed, arching as Vincent works a steadying hand behind him.  He’s not sure since when doing this unbeknownst to the most irritating co-worker he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing has become such a turn-on, but he can’t complain.

Vincent laughs around Thomas’s cock, kneading the small of Thomas’s back.  He already knows Thomas so well that he hadn’t even doubted that pleasuring him at a time like this would pay off.  When Thomas coaxes him to stop what he’s doing so that they can kiss, he does so eagerly.

“No more difficulties, amado?” Vincent asks against Thomas’s cheek, his touch achingly tender.

“None,” Thomas gasps.  He bites Vincent’s shoulder, shuddering as he comes in Vincent’s palm.

“I’m so glad I could help.”

“You’ve set…dangerous…”

“A dangerous precedent?”

“Redefining prayer for me.”

“For myself just as much.”

“That’s my job.  Lie down.”

Vincent doesn’t protest when Thomas loosens his rosary just enough to insinuate his own wrist through it, too, tangling their fingers above Vincent’s head.  He cries out softly as Thomas murmurs in his ear and takes his time kissing a damp trail from his collarbone to his belly.

Thomas suckles Vincent’s flushed cock until he tastes those familiar salt-and-sweet traces on his tongue.  He reverently kisses Vincent’s abdomen.

Vincent sobs, trembling for longer than Thomas can recall on previous mornings.  “Se siente tan bien,” he says shakily when he can breathe again.

Thomas takes Vincent’s right hand as Vincent grasps insistently at Thomas’s shoulder.  He kisses the beads at Vincent’s wrist before soothing the still perceptible tremors that seize low and sweet in Vincent’s belly.  Thomas rests his cheek there in awe, running his fingertips over the rosary.

“Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ,” he whispers.  “Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra.  Salve ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevæ.  Ad te suspiramus…”

Vincent exhales, just listening as Thomas prays.  “I love you so,” he whispers at length, once Thomas has finished, “as I know She must for your unwavering devotion.”  Vincent kisses Thomas fervently once he’s crawled back up the length of his body.  “Bless you.”

Thomas has never felt such happiness, and if he catches himself feeling pity in Goffredo’s direction?  That’s all right.  Since no one else can marvel at Vincent’s embodied holiness, let alone know of it, he’ll worship on behalf of everyone who’d seen fit to elect him.

“I’ve let you be indolent for long enough, my dear, don’t you think?” Thomas murmurs, holding Vincent close for just a few moments more.  

Vincent stretches contentedly.  “You’ll have to drag me out of here and fetch the schedule from Ray.  We’ve missed him and Aldo at breakfast.”

Once they’ve showered, eaten in the dining room, and Aldo has taken Vincent off Thomas’s hands, Thomas makes his way to Agnes’s office.  

Agnes is answering messages in her reading glasses.  She doesn’t even spare Thomas a glance when he drops into the chair next to her desk.

Agnes tuts.  “You were snippy to Goffredo when he texted you earlier this morning, which is why he sent me a snippy email about his holiday visit?”

Thomas contrite stares at his hands in his lap.  “Agnes, I’m sorry. He didn’t just have a go at me and Vincent; he had a go at you and the turtle.”

That actually gets Agnes to stop typing.  “You told him about Fran?” she asks in consternation, holding out her hand.  “Your phone, Thomas.  Now.”

Thomas pulls the device out of his cassock pocket, opens the offending text thread, and guiltily hands it over.  “I don’t know what came over me.”

Agnes’s eyes widen fractionally as she scrolls through the exchange.  “I have a few guesses, judging by the gaps between time-stamps,” she says.

“He had a go at Fran and Fran.”

“You gave him the ammunition!”

“I can only ask you to forgive me.”

“I’m not sure his usual room is free.”

Thomas stares at Agnes as she hands his phone back to him.  “What?”

“You were an arse, but Goffredo was an arse first,” Agnes replies.

“You’re going to put him in one of the smaller rooms, aren’t you?”

“I was thinking of the one Vincent got stuck with on arriving late.”

“For the conclave?” Thomas asks, impressed with Agnes’s pettiness.

“It’s one of the smallest, and there’s the other factor,” Agnes replies.

“The other…oh, no,” Thomas says in shock.  “Dear God, Agnes, that’s diabolical.  I don’t disapprove, but have you gone quite mad?”

Agnes side-eyes him.  “Is putting him where you had your third date any worse than what you did while you talked to him this morning?”

“I suppose not.  At the end of the day, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

“However, it can amuse the hell out of us.  And Francesca, if she’s watching.”

The next three weeks of planning and preparation pass with merciful swiftness.  Wisely, Aldo puts further diplomatic concerns on hold until after New Year’s, because Ray needs all of the help he can get with managing Vincent’s frustration around the tailoring of yet more new regalia, around the pomp and circumstance of it all.  Thomas sits quietly reading in the evenings unless Vincent asks for perspective on his gradually shaping-up homily.  He writes nothing down, but adds to it in his mind, each progressive recitation a few lines longer than the last.

What Thomas doesn’t find reassuring is Ray’s increasing agitation even though everything is on schedule.  It’s grown so pronounced by the evening before Goffredo’s arrival that Thomas feels he has no choice but to finally take Ray aside after dinner and ask him what’s wrong.

“It’s, well,” Ray says tersely, closing the door of Agnes’s office behind them, “the ring.”

Thomas takes several seconds to grasp his meaning.  “Vincent’s ring?  It’s not finished?”

“It’s been held up in customs for a week!” Ray hisses.  “At least I think that’s where it is.”

Strangely, Thomas isn’t too bothered to hear this, mostly because Vincent won’t be.  “Ah.”

“You seem awfully calm about the new Pope performing his first official Mass without it.”

“If it doesn’t arrive before the twenty-fourth, then I’m sure Vincent will wear his old one.”

“You mean if it doesn’t arrive tomorrow,” Ray snaps.  “His Eminence will judge us harshly.”

“Goffredo?” Thomas asks, bewildered.  “He’ll do that anyway.  Leave him to me and Aldo.”

On Friday, December twentieth, the Patriarch of Venice arrives in time to join them for lunch at Casa Santa Marta.  Goffredo is so jovially well-behaved that Aldo keeps shooting Thomas looks from across the table.  Agnes keeps peering out of the office with a frown of suspicion.

Of course, as of yet, only Goffredo’s staff have been shown to his room for purposes of dropping off his luggage.  Vincent looks like he’s enjoying the small-talk, and Thomas suspects it’s because he can’t wait to see if Goffredo’s shouting is audible from their second-floor suite.

Needless to say, it is.  Thomas has Vincent doubled over laughing in his arms on their sofa while the racket ensues for the better part of fifteen minutes—Goffredo’s poor staff—and it only takes another five minutes for the elevator to ding and Goffredo’s grousing to reach their door.

The Swiss Guards tell him to take his complaints downstairs to Sister Agnes, which is enough to make Thomas nearly dump Vincent on the floor in his haste to intercept Goffredo before he can get that far.  Thomas yanks the door open, panting, apologizing profusely to the guards.

“This is your idea of a joke?” Goffredo demands, but when he notices Vincent seated on the sofa with one hand covering his mouth, he goes still.

“No, it’s not,” Thomas says as nonchalantly as he can, “and taking it up with Sister Agnes will get you nowhere.  She gave you what was available.”

“You have never been a good liar, Tommaso,” Goffredo replies.  “The joke is, I think—” he gestures in Vincent’s direction “—that the rumor is true.”

“You can ask Cardinal Bellini about the procedural reason for our housing arrangements,” Vincent says, but doesn’t rise from where he’s seated.

“Why?  Because you will not tell me yourself?” Goffredo asks, oddly wary.

“I doubt you’d take it at face value,” Thomas sighs.  “Go settle in, Goffredo.”

Oddly, Goffredo does as he’s told.  And although they see him at Vincent’s habitual set of weekend Masses for Casa Santa Marta and Mater Ecclesiæ residents, he otherwise keeps to himself when he’s not audibly haranguing Aldo and vaping obnoxiously in the halls.

“I should feel bad about this, but I don’t,” Vincent admits as they’re lounging in Thomas’s bed with their respective reading materials on Sunday evening.  “I’ve rarely met a man whose presence is so disruptive, but it’s just too funny.  We should feel bad about this, right?”

“Are you kidding?” Thomas asks, turning the page of his battered copy of Aelred’s De spirituali amicitia (because heaven knows it’ll mess with Goffredo to see him reading it if he’s having untoward thoughts about him and Vincent).  “For Aldo, this is overdue enrichment.”

“I sort of wondered about that,” Vincent replies absently, and then sets his book aside.  “Is Ray all right?  There’s something he’s not telling me.”

“Oh, don’t let it trouble you,” Thomas says, bending over the side of the bed to set his book on the floor.  “It’s just that your ring’s been delayed.”

Vincent runs his thumb over his fairly standard-issue Cardinal’s ring, shrugging, and then traces the cross on Thomas’s in kind.  “Reassure him?”

“I already did my best,” Thomas admits.  “You might take a crack at it in the morning.  He’s averse to taking criticism from Goffredo for it.”

Vincent kisses Thomas’s ring, lingering there.  “Thank you for trying.”

Thomas rolls Vincent over into the pillows and kisses him.  “Always.”

Over the next forty-eight hours, Aldo continues to draw Goffredo’s fire away from everyone else so that they can focus on the gargantuan effort of making sure everything’s in place for Tuesday evening into the early hours of Wednesday morning.  Thomas keeps in contact with security, everyone from the Colonel of the Swiss Guards to the officers running metal detectors and patrolling the Vatican.  Vincent would rather that Thomas let Ray do that, as it’s his job, but after the conclave disaster, Thomas isn’t taking any chances. 

The thing is: Midnight Mass in St. Peter’s goes off without a hitch.  It’s almost anticlimactic after the monumental fuss.  Vincent’s homily is well received—God is hope above all else, that hope must be in our actions moving forward, and rarely has that hope been so needed as in the midst of the world’s strife at the opening of this Jubilee Year—although Thomas can tell that there’s bated breath and likely a few thousand sets of raised eyebrows over Vincent’s specific remarks on war, imperialism, and holding certain world governments accountable.

Aldo is glowing when it’s over.  “I knew you had it in you,” he says, clapping Vincent on the shoulder once the five of them are in the vestry.  “That’ll keep the press going until the end of January.  We’ll have more meeting requests than we can handle.”

“Thank you, but I don’t want to think about that now,” Vincent admits as Thomas and Ray help him out of his mitre and pallium.  He looks grateful that Thomas has dismissed the other attendants, and chagrined at Agnes swooping in to tend to the garments as Thomas removes them from him.  “Do you agree, as someone recently in my position?” Vincent asks Thomas.  “Did I say something interesting?”

“I dare say you took it a step further and said something fascinating,” Thomas replies.  And that’s when Ray puts something in his pocket.

“Didn’t get it to you beforehand,” Ray mutters.  “There’ll be the belated press op, but I thought you’d want privacy for the initial placement.”

Vincent stares at Ray, but he’s already taken Aldo by the arm to haul him out.  Agnes finishes hanging the pallium and follows them wordlessly.

Thomas slips his hand in his pocket, investigating the box.  There’s nothing terribly remarkable about the way it feels—embossed leather with a metallic hinge along the back.  He closes his fingers around it and withdraws it from his cassock, hesitantly meeting Vincent’s gaze.

Vincent buys Thomas an awkward moment by replacing his white zucchetto, but then smiles at him, wry and unsurprised.  “Ray came through?”

“A bit late, but that’s what I get for leaving an Irishman in charge of the post,” Thomas demurs, opening the box.  There’s such a high shine on the ring that he’s afraid to touch it, but he knows that Vincent’s no-nonsense wear will have it scratched up in no time.  Thomas pries it from the slot in the velvet, closes it in his palm, and puts the box back in his pocket.  “You know what this is.  Give me your right hand.”

“Sorry it’s not my left,” Vincent teases, setting it against Thomas’s chest.  “But maybe that means…something more personal, eventually?”

Thomas takes Vincent’s hand and slides the signet onto Vincent’s ring finger before he loses his nerve.  He kisses the flawless replication of Leo XIII’s rendering of St. Peter with its engraved inscription of INNOCENTIVS XIV PONT MAX in an arc above the fisherman’s head.

“Anything else I put on your finger,” Thomas whispers, holding Vincent’s luminous gaze, “it couldn’t possibly feel more momentous.  I chose you.”

Vincent throws his arms around Thomas’s neck, his laughter ringing around them so joyous and startling that Thomas regrets that there’s no one left but the Swiss Guards to hear.  Oh, how they kiss—until they’re breathless, until there’s no greater gift either of them can give than this.

“Come on, amado,” Vincent whispers.  “They’ll get suspicious if we’re too far behind them.  You know Agnes will have drinks ready back at home.”

“My dear Vincent,” Thomas whispers back.  “You did me proud.”  He takes Vincent’s arm, leading him to the door; one of the guards opens it for them when he taps it.  “Granted, it wouldn’t take much.  It’s no secret that you need only breathe to do that.”

Unfortunately, Goffredo is standing about five feet away from them and the guards, twitchy without his vape.  He must’ve been lurking.

“Goffredo,” Thomas says, his tone carefully neutral.  “I hope that the Mass was to your liking even if your accommodations have not been?”

“Tommaso,” Goffredo sighs, curiously devoid of any emotion beyond weary resignation, “I did not think that you would actually follow through.”

Vincent steps between Thomas and Goffredo, his chin defiantly lifted.  “With respect,” he says, “I don’t think that his actions are your concern.”

“Nor yours, Santo Padre,” Goffredo remarks with sarcasm.  “Maybe I understand better than you would believe.  Just…it is the recklessness, no?”

“It’s only reckless if we share a private moment when we’re likely to be interrupted,” Thomas points out.  “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Not meant to seek my brothers after la Santa Messa di Natale?” Goffredo scoffs sourly.  “The rumors that you have both lost your minds are true.”

“Those rumors would fly whether or not we were…”  Vincent looks at Thomas as he steps forward to stand beside him.  “Don’t you think so?”

Thomas nods readily in agreement.  “After the way that the conclave went?  I have no doubt that everyone would be saying it about me, at least.”

Goffredo glances back and forth between them, as if trying to decide how to feel in earnest.  “Uno scandalo sessuale at this level would ruin us.”

Thomas feels a pang of regret for having automatically assumed Goffredo might go to the press.  True, the Patriarch of Venice had never hesitated over his past attempts to tarnish one man’s reputation, but it seems that he perceives this as a potential risk to every single one of them.

“No,” Vincent says with quiet certainty, “it would ruin me, but only if it came to it.  I know you have no reason to trust me, but I’m asking you to.”

“I have,” Goffredo replies, offended, “enough reason after that dressing-down you gave me in front of everyone.  I voted for you in that last round.”

Thomas rubs his forehead, bowing his head in consternation.  If anyone is going to end up with a stress headache as a result of this conversation, it’s more likely to be him than it is to be Vincent at this rate.  That doesn’t feel right at all, because Vincent has far more to lose than he does.

“I have a contingency plan,” Vincent says calmly.

“A contingency plan,” Goffredo echoes.  “Such as?”

“Something else I’d offer to anyone threatening to break such a story about Thomas and myself,” Vincent replies.  “Something more worthwhile.”

Thomas grabs Vincent’s arm.  “Listen, you cannot—”

Vincent shrugs.  “It would reflect on no one but me. Sister Agnes would see to it that there was no tangible record anyone else ever knew.”

Goffredo looks worried rather than calculating.  “Tommaso,” he says warningly, “if this, ah, rabbit hole?  Rabbit hole, if it goes deeper—”

“I’m not going to give you anything more precarious than you’ve already gotten out of us,” Thomas says tartly.  “We’ll leave it at that.”

Goffredo glares at Thomas.  “You will swear to me on every relic under this roof that this other thing, it concerns only His Holiness?”

“I do swear, and so does Cardinal Lawrence,” Vincent insists.

“I need to hear it from him myself,” Goffredo replies tersely.

“I’ll swear on each one individually if it helps,” Thomas says.

“Col cazzo,” Goffredo mutters.  “We would be here all night.”

“Language, Cardinal,” Vincent warns.  “Have you forgotten where we are?”

“Actions, Holiness,” Goffredo parries.  “I have forgotten no more than you.”

Thomas crosses himself before he realizes what he’s doing, realizing just how much Agnes has rubbed off on him.  “Holy Father, we should go.”

“They say it is a risk of seizures, the reason you live together,” Goffredo says thoughtfully as the three of them make their way to where the Swiss Guards are waiting.  “Now, I am thinking—” he removes his vape from his cassock pocket “—that your other secret is also health-related.”

Vincent keeps his eyes trained straight ahead.  “I’m not at any risk of dying soon and leaving Cardinal Lawrence to organize another conclave.”

“Let us thank God for that,” Goffredo chuckles, elbowing Thomas companionably.  “So nervous!  I do not think he could bear it a second time!”

“Then I’ll see to it that you and Aldo are in charge of the next one,” Thomas says dourly.  But with Vincent laughing afresh, his anger dissolves.

Chapter Text

Thomas doesn’t set an alarm.  He’s going to let himself and Vincent be as indolent as they want for at least Christmas Day, maybe even several thereafter.  Their next public service isn’t until five o’clock on New Year’s Eve for First Vespers, Vigil of the Solemnity of Mary, and Te Deum.  Thomas luxuriates in the feeling of dozing, uncertain of what time it is.  When Vincent stirs in his arms, he kisses Vincent’s cheek.

“G’morning,” Vincent mumbles, touching Thomas’s face with imprecise fingers, “or afternoon.”  He stifles an endearing yawn.  “No lo sé.”

“My dear Vincent,” Thomas murmurs, running his thumb over the gleaming silver signet on Vincent’s right ring finger.  He kisses the first two knuckles at an unhurried pace, and then tenderly presses his lips to the gleaming metal.  “Buon Natale,” he sighs, content.

Vincent shivers, tucking his face into the curve of Thomas’s neck, tracing by feel from the corner of Thomas’s mouth up to his temple.  “Feliz Navidad, amado,” he murmurs sleepily, nuzzling Thomas’s earlobe.  “Our first, and we get to spend it…doing something nice.”

Thomas kneads Vincent’s lower back, content to let Vincent do whatever he wants given that they have no place to be.  He slides his thigh between Vincent’s, pleased to feel evidence of his desire already.  “You’re…redeeming last night’s rain check?  That didn’t take long.”

“I wanted to make love to you right after you put the ring on my finger,” Vincent breathes, rubbing against Thomas with a soft gasp.  “I couldn’t do it there in the vestry even though the idea…appeals to me.  And it’s a good thing I didn’t, what with our guest lurking.”

“Sucking me off while I’m texting him is one thing,” Thomas agrees, amused, wrapping one arm around Vincent’s shoulders and the other around his hips to steady him while they move lazily against each other.  That earns him a sharp, sweet moan right in his ear, so he turns his head and kisses Vincent until they’re both trembling.  “But after Mass?  When he’s right there? That’s asking for trouble.”

“All I’m hearing is that you don’t think you could’ve been quiet,” Vincent replies, teasing him.  “Ah, that’s—ah, Thomas,” he whimpers, his breath hitching as Thomas finds an effective angle to grind up against him.  “That’s—that’s not fair, you’re going to—”

“Make you come?” Thomas teases back, stroking Vincent’s jaw.  “Hmmm?  Because I wanted to do that last night, too, love.  Very much.”

Vincent tenses, unselfconsciously closing his eyes as he lets go.  He’s always so breathtakingly beautiful, so overwhelmed when it happens too soon, and Thomas is unabashedly living for it.  Vincent writhes and cries out as Thomas gets a hand on him, fucking into Thomas’s grasp as he rides out the aftershocks.  He sags after a minute or so, curling forward for another lingering kiss.

“Te amo,” Vincent whispers between kisses, sounding so pleased with what they’ve accomplished.  “Your hands, your mouth.”  He’s out of bed before Thomas can trap him in a hug, and back again as quickly with a washcloth to wipe away the mess he’s left on Thomas’s belly.  Vincent has also brought a travel-size tube of something, maybe a plain moisturizer, which he sets against the headboard.  “Everything about you,” he says with reverence, his touch inquisitive against Thomas’s inner thigh.  “I know it’s being stubborn.  May I?”

Thomas tugs Vincent to straddle his lap, leaving enough room between them for Vincent’s hand.  “You may do anything you wish,” he says fondly, “even if I can’t promise results.”  Thomas shivers as Vincent kisses him again, nerves alight with the sudden, soothing warmth of Vincent’s fingertips stroking him at a leisurely pace.  Even if Vincent doesn’t get him off, his touch is bliss enough.  “Ti adoro,” he whispers.  

“So much sweet-talk,” Vincent breathes against Thomas’s ear.  “If you’re not careful, you’ll run out.  Would you let me try something?”

Thomas feels Vincent brush one careful finger over his balls, and then dip beneath them, massaging there.  Vincent’s touch is a question just like it had been against his thigh that night during the conclave, and it’s frankly impressive how much intention he’s able to express.

“Yes,” Thomas manages, the word scarcely audible.  “Lower.”

Vincent bites Thomas’s earlobe just enough to sting.  “Bien.”

Thomas has never tried to touch himself like this.  He’s not sure he could bring himself to string it together as a request without abject humiliation, but he wants Vincent’s fingers exactly where he’s methodically preparing to put them—at least the two that he can feel, slick and warm, as Vincent experimentally circles his rim.  It’s tricky to do this while they’re kissing, but Vincent knows that helps Thomas to relax.

“I need you to tell me when,” Vincent prompts patiently.

“I think you’ll find it difficult to hurt me,” Thomas sighs.

Vincent looks worried.  “Does this have to do with your—” he appears to struggle with how he wants to phrase the next part “—hot water habit?”

Thomas covers his face, rubbing his eyes as Vincent pulls one of his hands away with his only unoccupied hand.  “My tolerance is...quite high.”

“That’s not the same thing as enjoying pain,” Vincent says.  “I’m only going to be forceful if you enjoy it, but I’m not sure that’s the case.  Is it?”

Thomas blinks at him, astonished.  He’s never really thought about that before.  “I don’t…”

Vincent softens his expression apologetically.  “I’m sorry.  It’s all right if you don’t know.”

“I want you to give me both, if it’s all the same?” Thomas suggests.  “I’m telling you to.”

“Oh,” Vincent replies after a beat, startled.  “That’s…fine, as long as…”  He nods readily, catching Thomas’s mouth in a quick kiss.  “Yes.”

Thomas takes Vincent’s touch so desperately, so readily, that he scarcely notices the stretch and burn.  Does that mean he likes pain?  Who knows.  All he’s really thinking about is Vincent murmuring strings of praise in his ear, English and Spanish interspersed, and the spark that’s burning him up from the inside out as Vincent presses deeper, harder, more.  Eventually, all it takes is the turn of Vincent’s wrist as he crooks his fingers.

“Thomas,” Vincent sighs with wonder, holding him close while he shakes apart.  “Good.”

Thomas doesn’t think he’s ever come like this before.  He moans helplessly, too awash in sensation to speak.  Thomas feels like he hasn’t been this messy in a while, either, never mind that he isn’t even close to hard.  He clings to Vincent, shaking as he eases his fingers free.

“Good doesn’t…start to cover it,” Thomas wheezes.  He blinks up at Vincent, utterly smitten.

Vincent drops a kiss on Thomas’s forehead.  “Not conducive to our morning rosary, though.”

“What a shame,” Thomas says faintly, his tone not at all convincing.  “Penance for us both.”

Laughing out loud, Vincent scrubs them both off.  “Decide what’s fitting and get back to me,” he laughs, settling beside Thomas, out of breath.

Over the next week, each time they make it downstairs for a communal meal feels like a minor victory.  Goffredo’s expression gets funnier and funnier, Thomas has to admit.  The full force of what’s going on isn’t just a proverbial ton of bricks; it’s a piano on his head each time.

“Keep it up,” Aldo whispers encouragingly once the Patriarch has swept out of the dining room early for the fourth time.  “You’re breaking him!”

Agnes chokes on her coffee.  “I still can’t believe he just…”  She coughs while Ray pats her on the back.  “He ambushed you after Mass like that.”

Thomas shrugs, contemplating the depths of his orange juice.  “He could have just left well enough alone.  The only person it’s breaking is him.”

“I hope your confidence in his claim that the Church’s collective reputation means more to him than anything else isn’t misplaced,” Aldo says.  “I’m inclined to say your instincts are correct, because this is Goffredo we’re talking about.  Heaven forbid he should look bad, too.”

“I trust Thomas’s judgment,” Vincent replies, doctoring his coffee with too much cream and sugar.  He looks as lovestruck as Thomas feels, which is understandable given that they’ve been listening to all of the Loreena McKennitt albums that they couldn’t during the conclave.  The next most devastating discovery to their mutual love of “The Dark Night of the Soul” has been that, at some point, she’d recorded “Dante’s Prayer” in Spanish.  Neither of them had known.  If Thomas doesn’t survive their intimate activities with that on repeat, then at least he’ll die happy.

“We should maintain him as an ally, however at odds we may be with him on other matters,” Ray points out sagely.  “Please don’t look at me like that, Aldo.  I understand that it’ll cause you no end of grief.  But if we’re lucky, Goffredo will use his bluster to halt rumors in the Curia.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with you,” Agnes sighs, rising from the table with her coffee in hand.  She marches toward the office.

“Where are you going, Sister?” Thomas calls after her.  “Surely there’s nothing pressing!”

“I need to reassign Eminence Tedesco to his old room!” Agnes shouts.  “It’s opened up!”

Goffredo is so pleased by his change of accommodations that he starts sitting with them the next morning at breakfast, which indeed makes Aldo green in the gills.  Shockingly, though, he has some earnestly constructive suggestions when Vincent gets stuck on his homily for New Year’s Eve.

On New Year’s Eve, when the service arrives—First Vespers on the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, and Te Deum in Thanksgiving for the Past Year—St. Peter’s is packed even in comparison to Christmas.  Thomas has had no indication from the security team that there’s an expected threat, but he sticks adamantly close by Vincent’s side throughout the evening in spite of the fact that he’s taken no speaking role.  He can’t help but wonder how many in the crowd of thousands have noticed since they’ve publicly done this twice within the span of a week.

Afterward, Goffredo barges into the vestry along with Aldo, Ray, and Agnes, which makes for some fascinating tension while Thomas helps Vincent out of his regalia.  After a few minutes, Goffredo looks bored with the fact that there’s nothing too scandalous about the proceedings, and Aldo gets on with facilitating small-talk.  Even in the presence of their antagonist, Thomas finds it comforting to be among friends.

“He’s being normal,” Vincent whispers as Thomas hands off the last pieces of his garb to Agnes for folding and hanging.  “Imagine that.”

“You got the worst possible first impression of him,” Thomas whispers back.  “Inasmuch as the Papacy falling on him would’ve been a disaster…”  He puts Vincent’s white zucchetto back on his head.  “He hasn’t always been a terrible colleague.  You’re getting a taste of that.”

Vincent takes an unconscious step closer while Thomas fusses over positioning it.  “Quiero besarte,” he breathes.  “Everyone here knows.”

Thomas sighs fondly.  He compromises, kissing him on one cheek, and then the other.  “Your words have been a comfort to me, Holy Father.”

“Sì, sì,” Goffredo says impatiently, interrupting whatever he’d been bickering about with Aldo and Ray with loud applause.  “Un grande conforto per tutti.”  He tuts, beckoning everyone toward the door.  “I am not drunk enough for this sentimentalismo…not drunk at all.”  Goffredo waves curtly at Agnes as she finishes straightening garments on hangers.  “We can remedy this once we have returned to Santa Marta, no?”

Agnes just stares at him, folding her arms.  “Do you still travel with a bottle of your best?  I’m not giving up one of ours unless you can match it.”

“What do you take me for?” Goffredo scoffs, beckoning to her, and then repeats the gesture to everyone again.  “Of course!  Andiamo al vino!”

“Oh my God,” Aldo mutters under his breath to Thomas as they hang back.  “This doesn’t end well, does it?  One glass each, no more than that?”

Vincent makes an incredulous sound under his breath.  “You?  Have just one glass?”

“I’m wounded, Vincent,” Aldo deadpans as they traipse out of the vestry.  “Wounded.”

“Vincent?” Goffredo echoes up ahead.  “Have you no respect for His Holiness’s office?”

“It’s going to be a long night,” Agnes mutters to Ray.  “Do we have any whiskey left?”

“Not much,” Thomas admits, taking Vincent’s hand.  “You two might have to duel for it.”

“There are a pair of halberds and swords just outside the door at all times,” Vincent says.

“We will not be asking to borrow those!” Agnes says loudly enough for the Swiss Guards currently escorting them out of the building to hear.

“Pity,” Goffredo remarks to Aldo, elbowing him conspiratorially.  “I would have liked to watch.”

“Why are you talking to me sober?” Aldo asks in confusion. “Did you want to propose a bet?”

“Do you think we can sneak away at midnight?” Vincent whispers furtively to Thomas.  “I want to see the turtles, and…you owe me a kiss.”

“Yes, my dear,” Thomas whispers back, squeezing Vincent’s hand.  “I think that an excursion can be arranged while the others get soused.”

Chapter Text

It’s incredible, Thomas marvels, the level of genuine loyalty that Vincent has already earned from the regular rotation of Swiss Guards on duty outside their second-floor suite.  They must know what’s going on; if they don’t, then ignorance truly is bliss.  They’re the closest to Vincent’s and Thomas’s domesticity at all times.  No matter how well insulated they’d like to believe the walls are, certain sounds surely slip through.

This is the tier of employment at which bribes happen, Aldo is forever reminding Thomas.  The level at which leaks to the press happen, Ray periodically laments.  The Vatican has previously been hit with exposés involving young members of the Swiss Guard selling their stories to journalists.  In Thomas’s experience, those stories almost always involve incidents in which the guards have been the objects of inappropriate advances from senior clergy.  It’s unacceptable when it happens; flagrant abuses and imbalances of power are always unacceptable.

Thomas hopes that canny parties see him and Vincent as committed equals.  It’s the best he can hope for.  As for whether those parties see them as married before God, well: three of them do, but the rest?  Only God knows.  So, Vincent treats the men who have the power to make or break their smoke-screened existence with the kind of respect that Thomas wishes everyone would show them, as opposed to regarding them as brightly-upholstered décor from a bygone era.  After all, Pope Julius II hadn’t hired the formidable mercenaries in 1505 for shits and giggles.

That rapport is how, while the other four continue to drink well beyond a single glass of wine or whiskey, Thomas and Vincent slip out the door in plainclothes and black wool coats.  They pause for a moment to wish the guards a Happy New Year and promise they won’t be gone long.

Nobody follows them as they stride into the elevator.  Nobody sees that Thomas is the one to pin Vincent this time, kissing the tender skin beneath his earlobe as the swift downward motion sways them into one another.  Vincent makes an impatient, but delighted sound, pushing Thomas away barely in time for the doors to swish open again.  The lobby is empty, and there’s another set of Swiss Guards to clear at the entrance.

The second pair put up some actual protest when Vincent explains that he and Thomas are going for a walk.  They insistently offer to follow.  Vincent can’t get charm to work this time, so he sort of…gently pulls rank instead.  He reminds them they’re not to leave their posts, and that’s that.  Thomas gives each of them a desperately apologetic look in turn; he hasn’t found an effective way of arguing with Vincent, either.

“How long until they radio the barracks to say the Pope’s gotten loose, do you think?” Vincent asks Thomas as they walk at a brisk clip across the secluded courtyard that serves as a shortcut to the fountain.  “Eh, they’ll keep their mouths shut.  Nobody wants trouble on a holiday.”

“That’s not true,” Thomas chides Vincent, finally taking his arm.  “You want trouble on a holiday.  You are trouble on a holiday.  You’ve been trouble on every holiday for the past week.  Let us thank God your homilies have been well received, minus a few hints of provocation.”

Vincent shrugs.  “I don’t think I said anything about the current state of the world that most people with sense and compassion haven’t already been thinking.  I feel I was quite moderate otherwise.  Aldo feels I was moderate otherwise.  Too moderate, if I read between the lines.”

“Yes, well, Aldo would set the world on fire if we let him,” Thomas sighs.  “He’d cover the areas you wouldn’t, I’d wager.  You’ll make a formidable team in that respect, I think, in the years to come.  My role will…obviously keep more closely tied to internal affairs.  And to you.”

Vincent stops walking, wheeling them until they stand face to face on the flagstone path.  He steps close and rises ever so slightly on the balls of his feet, his hands on Thomas’s shoulders for balance.  For long seconds, he doesn’t do anything more than press them nose to nose.

“That thought terrifies me, Thomas,” Vincent whispers tremulously.  “The years to come.  I’ve been trying so hard not to…”  He trembles as Thomas brings his arms around his waist, pulling him in against the chill.  “I want so much to be strong for you.  Strong for all of them.”

“My dear Vincent,” Thomas replies quietly, his heart breaking for this glimpse of what lies beneath Vincent’s determination as much as it has broken for every other glimpse that Vincent has entrusted to him in their most fraught, private hours sequestered away from the others.  “I am so sorry that it wasn’t within my power to guarantee…or, rather, that I couldn’t spare you this trial for which you didn’t ask, that I failed to…”

“To protect me from the unexpected, life-altering outcome of that final vote?  That it wasn’t you, John, my Beloved?” Vincent asks, his tone wistful with forgiveness.  “I know.  But never forget I would still be here at your side anyway—in this Heaven, this Purgatory.  However trying it may become, this is not Hell. I accepted. We made the choices that led us here with our eyes wide open.  That’s precious beyond everything to me.”

“In sickness and in health, Vincent,” Thomas reminds him, his voice finally breaking.  “Please don’t think that I have any illusions about where that sickness lies first and foremost with each of us, at least at this point in our lives.  It pains me more than I can possibly say, knowing what you’ve borne out of necessity. My service pales in comparison.”  He reverently kisses each of Vincent’s eyelids in turn, following the tracks of fresh tears.  “You speak of being at my side in a place that isn’t Hell, but all I can think is that I wasn’t at yours when you needed support most.”

“I wouldn’t be who I am if not for what I’ve endured, just as you wouldn’t be who you are if you hadn’t weathered trials of your own.  God is not always kind,” Vincent replies, smiling bitterly through his own tears.  “Still, I wonder if I would have fallen in love with you without your scars?  Would you have fallen for me without mine?”  He wipes Thomas’s cheeks with his thumbs, grimacing ruefully.  “We’ll never know.”

“I have you now, Vincent,” Thomas assures him.  “I love you now.”

Vincent nods, his gaze brightening.  “To have and to hold, isn’t it?”

“Oh, something like that,” Thomas laughs.  “Forgive my editing.”

Vincent takes him by the shoulders.  “It’s almost time. We’re late.”

Thomas is briefly confused until he realizes Vincent means they’re late to the fountain.  They make it with only three or four minutes to spare, breathless in the raw chill as they watch Fran and the rest of the turtles paddle sluggishly through the water.  Thomas catches Vincent around the waist when he tries to bend and pet one of them as it passes, holding him fast.  He turns Vincent so that they’re facing each other.

“It’s too cold for that,” Thomas murmurs, running his thumb gently across the dry, split skin of Vincent’s lower lip.  “How is this…”  He shakes his head, dazed, studying Vincent’s face as if he’s seeing it for the first time.  “What even compelled you to stop here that night?”

“Wish I could tell you it was something more,” Vincent whispers, abashed as he breaks into a grin, “but I just really, really like turtles.  I think they’re neat.”  He sobers a fraction, studying Thomas’s face just as intently.  “What compelled you to stop here that night?”

“You did, of course,” Thomas replies.  “I’ll never pretend otherwise.  I think you’re neat.”

Vincent flushes, leaning harder into him.  “We distracted each other.  It’s past midnight.”

Thomas kisses him soft and slow, sighing into Vincent’s mouth as his lips part.  He kisses Vincent the way he would’ve done that night if he’d been brave enough.  Thomas thinks of every night they’ve passed since then, realizing they’ve spent far more together than apart.

“I would have counted myself blessed only just to have seen your face,” Thomas murmurs.

With stubborn joy, Vincent kisses him again.  “And I would never have let you walk away.”

Chapter Text

Thomas and Vincent have Fran out of the water when Agnes comes marching up to them with her arms folded.  She reveals her phone in her hand, takes a flash photo of them without asking, and then sends it as a text to Anton and Lorenz as proof that Vincent is unharmed.

Agnes rolls her eyes and crosses herself before taking the turtle off Vincent’s hands.  “If you insist on hassling her like this, at least bring treats next time,” she replies, stooping to carefully plop Fran in the water with the others.  “Have the gardeners told you what they like?”

“We’ve snuck lettuce and fruit salad out of the dining room,” Thomas offers, and Vincent nods in confirmation.  “Fran will take greens any day, but the only pieces of fruit we can get her to eat are the strawberries.  I didn’t realize reptiles could be so discerning.”

“Margery and Julian are less picky,” Vincent reassures Agnes as her frown deepens.  “They’ll eat anything and everything we bring for them.  The rest of the flock are varying degrees of picky, but not a single one of them is as particular as Fran.  She is…unique.”

“I’ll give you raw chicken scraps next time there are some left after dinner prep,” Agnes says, beckoning for them to start following her back toward the courtyard.  “They’re omnivorous, so you should bring variety.  They’ll also take beef, fish, and shrimp.”

“I’ve read that in the wild they’ll eat bugs, worms, frogs, and even small birds if they can catch them,” Vincent says, fascinated.  “Have you seen—”

“Found the remains of a duckling once,” Agnes blurts.  “Don’t know which of them did it.  They’re not pack hunters, but several of them had a bite.”

Vincent looks impressed.  “Thomas told me the St. James’s Park pelicans do that.  I can’t believe our turtles are fierce enough to compete.”

Something is nagging at Thomas, but it’s not that the turtles ate a duckling.  “I don’t think a group of turtles is called a flock or a pack.”

Typing on his phone, Vincent makes a dismayed sound.  “A group of land turtles is called a bale, a dole, a nest, or a turn.  If aquatic, a flotilla.”

“I still like flock better for ours,” Agnes replies.  “You’ve spoken in jest of herding them, but it’s appropriate to our calling, don’t you think?”

“It’d be a compromise given that ours are all-terrain,” Thomas says, not in the mood to argue, although his grammatical inclination is flotilla.

Vincent gets Thomas to hang back a few feet as they trudge after Agnes, leaning to kiss his cheek once they’re concealed in the courtyard.  “That’s going to bother you for the rest of the night, isn’t it,” he says, not quite teasing.  “What can I do to make you feel better?”

“Get our guests to move along,” Thomas replies, “so that I can scrub the mud off us in the shower and, hopefully, finish what we started.”

“What we started…at midnight, you mean?  Ambitious.”

“No, when I disrobed you after Mass.  Yes, at midnight.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  You could argue it started after Mass.”

Ahead of them, Agnes makes an exasperated noise.  “I don’t understand how every last paparazzo in town hasn’t caught wind of your sweet nothings by now.  Do everyone a favor and keep your mouths shut until you’re safely behind a locked door, for the love of God.”

“Sorry, Sister,” Thomas and Vincent reply nearly in unison.

They find a half-arsed, intoxicated theological debate in progress between Aldo, Goffredo, and Ray when they return to the suite.  All it takes is Agnes raising her voice for everyone to shut up and file out after her, leaving Thomas and Vincent alone in their tiny living room.

“What can I do to make you feel better after we shower?” Vincent asks, tugging Thomas toward the bedroom.  He hasn’t even bothered to shed his shoes or coat, which…Thomas can’t bring himself to care given Vincent’s earnest, lovely eyes as he walks backwards a step at a time.

Thomas indulges Vincent’s playful cajoling even though they’re both feeling the late hour, pinning him against the bathroom door as soon as he’s backed himself against it with a startled thump.  “You can lie down,” he murmurs in Vincent’s ear, “and let me take care of you.”

Vincent shivers as Thomas kisses his neck the way he’d done in the elevator, but more lingering this time, a gasp catching in his throat.  “Would…”  He swallows audibly as Thomas moves to the other side of his neck and nips, letting his teeth scrape.  “Would you try, ah…”  Vincent fumbles at the doorknob when Thomas finally kisses him on the lips.  “You’d think after doing it for you, I’d be better at finding words.”

“I’ll do anything you ask,” Thomas vows, catching Vincent tight against himself so both of them don’t stumble when the door swings open.  He maneuvers Vincent into the bathroom, hits the light switch, and starts to unbutton Vincent’s coat for him.  “Especially that.”

Vincent falls silent, his gaze anticipatory and luminous, going pliant as Thomas undresses him.  He watches Thomas strip out of his own clothes, and then busies himself with turning on the shower and adjusting the temperature so that Thomas gets nowhere near that task.

Thomas makes quick, but thorough work of scrubbing traces of the fountain off them.  He makes slower work of washing Vincent’s hair for him, which means Vincent is a sweet, pliant mess in his arms by the time they’re both clean.  Fleetingly, Thomas wishes they were younger so that carrying Vincent to bed might be possible.  Keeping a possessive hand at the small of his back feels like the next best thing.

Vincent sinks onto the mattress, pulling Thomas against himself with a breathy sigh.  “It’s in the nightstand,” he whispers between kisses.  “Wasn’t about to let it stray too far after how, mmm—”  Vincent trembles and clutches desperately at Thomas “—how good that made you feel.”

“Why the rush?” Thomas replies fondly, licking beneath Vincent’s earlobe.  He’s startled when that draws a tremulous cry from Vincent.  Perhaps Thomas has already been more of a tease than he’d intended.  “Oh, love,” he murmurs, reaching for the handle of the drawer.   “Shhh.”

“I just hope…”  Vincent chews his lip, eyes tracking over the ceiling as Thomas gets the tube open and slicks his fingers.  “I hope it’ll work.”

Thomas stops what he’s doing, leaning over Vincent in concern.  He wraps his hand around Vincent’s cock reassuringly, because that, at least, is something he knows will work while he finds a tactful way to ask what that cryptic statement means.  “Have you tried it on yourself,” he prompts tentatively, “and it…didn’t quite?”  Thomas keeps his touch mindful, watching for a shift in Vincent’s breathing as he writhes under him.

Vincent shakes his head, his hips jerking with each of Thomas’s strokes.  “I haven’t tried, because…”  He opens his eyes.  “I have…my records call it prostatic tissue, but it’s not formed quite the same way as…”  Vincent takes a shuddering breath when Thomas trails his fingertips up Vincent’s inner thigh and back down again.  “Not like yours.  I’m maybe the twenty-first documented person with this exact combination of genotypic and phenotypic traits?  God knows how many there have been, there are, or are to come.  It would be useful to know their experiences.”

“Mine’s not in normal condition by medical practitioners’ standards, either.  Not anymore,” Thomas reminds him wryly.  “I’ll always believe you’re perfect as you are.”  He kisses Vincent’s forehead.  “You need only tell me if you’d rather not try this, understand?”

Vincent nods, calm and candid.  “Yes, I do,” he insists, as beautifully, bloody-mindedly determined as ever.  “I want to try it, Thomas. I want you.”

“That’s all I need to hear,” Thomas reassures, maneuvering his fingertips by feel, intently watching the shifts in Vincent’s expression.  “Like this?”

“Yes,” Vincent says, his breath catching in pleased shock.  “Ah, ah, that’s—good, ah, that’s—”  He moans so abruptly, bears down so stubbornly as Thomas works one finger inside him, that it sends a white-hot flash down Thomas’s spine even though he isn’t hard himself.  “Thomas!”

Thomas hushes Vincent when the next sound he makes is just shy of a wail, carefully withdrawing his hand so he can hold Vincent close while he shudders and spills.  “My dearest,” he whispers, stroking Vincent’s hair back from his damp forehead.  Vincent continues to violently tremble for several minutes even once his limbs have fallen slack.  “How’s that?” Thomas asks, so in love that it makes his chest ache.

Vincent inhales like there’s not enough air in the room to fill his lungs.  He opens his mouth against Thomas’s collarbone, his teeth catching before he presses a shaky kiss to the spot he’s bitten.  “Fuck me next time?” he exhales at length. “If you think that’s something you’d…”

Thomas is stunned enough that he can’t find a response to that right away, so he kisses Vincent for a leisurely while instead.  “I’d give you the world if I could,” he tells Vincent once they break for breath, sleepy and sated, if a bit sticky.  “Of course I’d like to try.”

Vincent stifles laughter, and the vibration between their chests fills Thomas with giddy warmth.  “As if you hadn’t already handed me the Papacy.”

Thomas tickles Vincent to see what will happen, and the resulting giggle-fit doesn’t disappoint.  “As if that weren’t easier than what you’re asking.”

“I have faith in you, Thomas.”

“It won’t be happening tonight.”

Chapter Text

Thomas isn’t in the best shape for ten o’clock morning Mass back in St. Peter’s.  Still, it’s worth the look on Goffredo’s face—a palpable hangover laced with the knowledge of exactly why Agnes had kicked him, Aldo, and Ray out of the Papal residence just after midnight.

For Holy Mass on the Solemnity of Mary, an inevitable sequel to the previous evening’s Vigil, Vincent opens with an effortless quote from St. Ambrose of Milan (“Is not Mary the gate through whom the Redeemer entered this world? This is the gate of justice, as He Himself said: Permit us to fulfill all justice,” Epistle 42).  It’s all Thomas can do to keep a straight face when Aldo makes eye contact during the homily; the drunken debate between him and Goffredo the previous evening had been about the contents of that very letter addressed to Pope Siricius.

Thomas can guess why Goffredo had decided to needle Aldo about his current views on a treatise wherein Mary’s virginity is extolled as an ideal to be prized above even the sanctity of marriage, and why he’d waited to do it after Thomas and Vincent had snuck out to the fountain in order to be alone as both clock and calendar flipped from 2024 to 2025.  Goffredo had clearly felt the need to argue with someone about it.

Where Goffredo is concerned, there’s plenty of precedent to suggest that Vincent is nothing if not an opportunistic provocateur when it suits him.  What he latches onto in St. Ambrose’s letter isn’t the debate over whether virginity or committed marriage is the more worthy state; it’s the theologian’s exegesis on how, in its so-called contrariness to nature, Christ’s conception and birth are not only proof of Mary’s holiness, but also of Her humanity.  She, too, was married.  Defiance of nature and mundanity contained in one body; paradox upon paradox.

Later, all Thomas can think about as they see Goffredo off to the train station is that he has no clue about the irony contained in that angle on the text vis-à-vis Vincent.  He’s going to spend his entire career as Pope using poetic, plain-spoken, double-edged sermons to covertly mock his rivals.  Trouble on holidays?  No, Vincent is trouble every day.  It’s so fucking attractive that Thomas spends the rest of the afternoon, which they’ve got to themselves, making sure Vincent knows that.  They laze in bed afterward, listening to Lila Downs for a change of pace.

“Congratulations, Holiness,” Thomas murmurs against Vincent’s knuckles, still entranced by how the engraved, high-polished silver of Vincent’s ring feels against his lips.  “You survived your first Octave of Christmas in Rome.  You did as well as your predecessor did for his.”

“That’s not true,” Vincent protests, catching Thomas’s chin.  He runs his thumb over Vincent’s lower lip, sighing contentedly when Thomas catches it between his teeth.  “I remember watching the broadcasts…what was it, almost twelve years ago now?  He was so collected.”

“You were calm, collected, and taking the piss,” Thomas says fondly.  “Don’t think I didn’t notice.  You caught the tail end of what Agnes broke up last night and capitalized on it.  Goffredo’s going to be puzzling over what he said to make you seize on that for weeks.”

Vincent shrugs, wiggling happily in Thomas’s embrace.  “Aldo’s going to scold me about it tomorrow, isn’t he?  Maybe I offended him, too.”

“No, he’s going to give you a bloody scapular medal,” Thomas replies, tickling Vincent’s side now that he knows what kind of result that gets.

Vincent nearly shrieks.  “My choice of saints?” he asks hopefully once he’s got his laughter under control again, almost in tears with hilarity.

“So, you’ve seen the double-sided ones that they sell at Mondo Cattolico on St. Peter’s Square?”

“Of course. I’ve been looking covetously at the stock on their website for years.  Who hasn’t?”

Thomas kisses him for that confession; it’s so adorable he doesn’t know what to do except keep asking questions.  “Oh, do tell me which ones are fetching enough to have led you into temptation.  I may or may not want to know because I’m dreadful at buying birthday gifts.”

Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Vincent shifts until they’re curled front to front with their legs tangled.  He waxes pensive after a few seconds, tracing from Thomas’s nape, down and over his collarbone, to the hollow of his throat.  “You don’t wear any smaller pieces that you never remove,” Vincent observes.  “Only your ornamental crucifix when you’re in choir dress, which…is fetching, it suits you, don’t get me wrong.”

“Same with you,” Thomas points out.  “Yours is striking, my dear.  Of the few meaningful things you spirited out of Kabul, I’m truly glad that was one of them.”  He presses his lips to Vincent’s temple, and then to Vincent’s cheek.  “We haven’t learned to indulge ourselves, clearly.”

Vincent makes a soft, languid sound, giving Thomas a satisfied kiss.  “It’s not the scapular medals I’ve looked at the most on that site,” he mumbles against Thomas’s mouth.  “Remember when I mentioned Loretto Chapel, how I want to go when we visit Santa Fé this spring or summer?  That’s the Spanish way of spelling Loreto, with the Basilica della Santa Casa shrine three hundred kilometers away—Our Lady of Loreto.”

“I know it,” Thomas confirms, running his fingers through Vincent’s hair.  “The Black Madonna there is wondrous to contemplate, although tragic given the original fifteenth-century statue was lost in a fire.  Patroness of air travel, would that you’d had Her likeness to wear on your journey.”

Nodding in wistful agreement, Vincent traces from the corner of Thomas’s eye down to his jaw, nuzzling the spot where his fingers land.  “The Madonna di Loreto medal in that shop is a lovely representation of the statue,” he sighs.  “I keep looking at it because I’ve wished for so long…”

“You’ve never been to the Basilica della Santa Casa or to Loretto Chapel,” Thomas says quietly.  “I’m hoping you won’t say no to seeing both.”

“You’ll take me to Loreto?” Vincent asks, his voice full of hope, hugging Thomas.  “Before we go to Santa Fé?  Can Aldo make that happen?”

“Vincent, I’ll make it happen without intervention from anyone,” Thomas replies reassuringly, hugging him right back.  “You need a tour.”

“Because I haven’t seen the churches and shrines outside of Rome?”

“Yes, let alone most of the ones scattered throughout Rome itself.”

“I get to have my husband as a tour guide?  I’ll really enjoy that.”

“Let me talk it over with Agnes and Ray,” Thomas says, exasperated.  “You know they’ll both want to be along for the ride.  Make sure we behave.”

Vincent nods.  “Unfortunate, but a necessary measure.  As Agnes pointed out last night, our sense of self-preservation is not very present, if at all.”

Thomas tugs the covers over them, resting his cheek against the top of Vincent’s head.  It’s barely four in the afternoon, they’ve been listening to Lila Downs’s Árbol de la Vida on loop while they fool around, and now he’d like to make sure they nap for a bit before dinner.

“Only problem is, it doesn’t come in silver,” Vincent says sleepily after a while, his face pressed against Thomas’s neck.  “The Loreto medal.”

“It’s reassuring that you have expensive taste in something,” Thomas yawns.  “I know what you mean.  The eighteen-carat pieces seem…excessive, even I’ll admit that.”  He kisses Vincent’s forehead, and then whispers, “But you would look lovely with gold against your skin.”

Vincent makes an almost wounded sound, his breath catching as he tries to hitch their bodies closer.  “If…I were to wear it where only you could…”

Thomas presses Vincent onto his back against the pillows.  “I’m going to make you come again, because you deserve it,” he says as conversationally as he can, although he’s blushing so fiercely that he’s not fooling anyone.  “Then, we’re going to sleep for a while.”

Vincent looks hazy enough with desire that he’s not thinking much of anything.  “And then we’ll go to dinner?  I need to speak with Agnes.”

Thomas reverently kisses Vincent’s neck, nodding in agreement.  “Yes, love.”

Vincent trembles and gasps, tipping his head back.  “Respuesta a mi oración.”

Thomas, Aldo, and Ray don’t find out until the next morning what Vincent had taken Agnes aside to address after dinner.  Vincent’s first order of business in the New Year is clearly to scandalize everyone with even a modicum of conservatism inside and outside the Vatican.

Vincent has asked Agnes to serve as Vice Director of the Holy See Press Office.  And she’s apparently giving serious thought to accepting the role.  While she wouldn’t be the first woman (or even the first nun) to serve within the Press Office, she’d be the first in a directorial role.

“That’s an incredibly smart move,” Ray says into his coffee mug once Vincent and Aldo have left for the day’s meetings at the Apostolic Palace.

Thomas nods, still shocked, watching as Agnes makes her way back to them with fruit and a coffee refill for herself.  “It is.  She’s the best of us.”

Agnes raises her eyebrows as she returns to the table and sits down across from them.  “If you have any misgivings, speak now or face Purgatory.”

“None whatsoever,” Ray replies, confident.  “You’re the best at your job and mine half the time, too.  I think you’ll be brilliant if you decide to do it.”

“I’m going to,” Agnes says, her voice low with resolve.  All the while, her eyes are fixed on Thomas instead of Ray.  “Would you like to know why?”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Thomas sighs.  “I think I may already know, and I’m so sorry about what you’re likely facing come tomorrow.”

“I’m facing it as soon as this meal’s over,” Agnes replies.  “But I’ve had the press release ready for weeks, if you recall.  It was just a matter of time.”

“Someone’s gotten nosy about the living arrangements after all?” Ray asks.

“Correct,” Agnes says, peeling an orange.  “I have Goffredo on standby.”

Thomas blinks at her, stupefied.  “On standby for what, exactly, Agnes?”

“A quote in defense of your sainted names, alongside the medical rationale.”

“In defense of the Church is nearer to the mark, but…that’s generous of him.”

“He was just a guest in your home for two weeks, Thomas.  An eyewitness.”

Ray gives Thomas a meaningful look.  “Goffredo was nowhere near as hard on Aldo as he could have been after Mass on New Year’s.”

Thomas scrubs the side of his face and forces himself to finish another few slices of the apple Vincent had cut for him.  “Point taken.”

Once the three of them have finished eating, Ray flees with haste to attend to the tasks that have piled up while they’ve been occupied with holiday services and their high-maintenance guest.  Agnes grabs her mug and Thomas’s, beckons for him to follow her to the office, and refills both mugs on their way there.  She gestures for him to have a seat once she’s taken hers in front of the keyboard, sliding his mug to him.

“Agnes,” Thomas begins with regret, “if I’d known that this would prompt Vincent to offer you responsibilities beyond those you’ve already—”

“Francesca died before she could see the day,” Agnes cuts in, her eyes alight.  “If you think I see this as a burden, then you’re mistaken.”

Thomas shakes his head and smiles at her.  “Don’t know why I bother to fret.”

Agnes pats his forearm consolingly.  “You can’t help it.  You’re an Englishman.”

“His Late Holiness would’ve said otherwise,” Thomas demurs.  “I’m a manager.”

“Let it go, Thomas,” Agnes says, opening her inbox.  “What does Vincent say?”

“That I think about too much at once,” Thomas replies.  “He asks me if it hurts.”

“So, it’s the same diagnosis I gave, more or less,” Agnes deadpans after a beat.

“I’m his Englishman, for all my sins,” Thomas sighs, smiling wider.  “So, yes.”

Chapter Text

The Innocent XIV administration’s core team gets so busy that the rest of January goes up in smoke faster than a stack of conclave ballots.  Thomas is startled to realize that, by the last week of the month, his schedule and Vincent’s deviate from each other just enough that they’re lucky if they spend almost an entire day at each other’s sides maybe three out of seven.  More often than not, they use Vincent’s mid-afternoon break to eat together or even just to curl up together and rest.  The job is exhausting, and it’s already taking a palpable toll on Vincent.

Agnes’s damage control on the untoward speculation over Thomas’s and Vincent’s living arrangements has succeeded.  With quotes from Vincent’s heavily vetted new doctor on the medical front and from Goffredo as a character reference, no further journalists have tried to interrogate the situation.  Another benefit of Agnes’s promotion has been a drop in Ray’s stress about external inquiries.  He’s handling fewer.

Unfortunately, Aldo is the one whose stress has hit the ceiling.  With Ray’s assistance, he’s been working on scheduling Vincent’s first official tour for over the first few weeks of the month of June.  The planned stops are Santa Fé, Kahnawake, Veracruz, Rio de Janeiro, and Buenos Aires.  With three to four days in each port of call, it’s easily one of the most ambitious pastoral trips undertaken by any Pope—if not the most ambitious.  Thomas is certain that’s the next thing on which the press will seize and have a field day, as the entourage is unusually large.

Thomas, Aldo, Agnes, and Ray will all be traveling with Vincent in addition to the usual Swiss Guards, medical team, photographers, and handful of journalists.  And, in an odd turn, so will Goffredo.  On making the petulant point to Aldo that he’d never been chosen as one of the attendant local cardinals to tag along on past Papal visits, he’d also reminded him of the favor he’d done Agnes.  Aldo had grudgingly relented.

“At least he’ll lend credibility to the assertion that you’re about building bridges rather than burning them, especially after sending Joe packing,” Aldo says to Vincent, watching him stoop to hold a piece of strawberry out to Fran.  “Vincent, you’re going to get a finger bitten off.”

“I look forward to Goffredo’s company,” Vincent says mischievously, withdrawing his hand swiftly once Fran has snapped the strawberry from between his index finger and thumb.  He accepts Thomas’s help in getting to his feet, clinging gratefully to Thomas’s forearm.

“It’ll be a constant exercise in reminding him to keep his tongue on a leash,” Thomas sighs, reluctant to let go of Vincent.  It’s been a long day, dinner is over, and now they’re stealing time for themselves.  “Then again, I can tell you’re looking forward to keeping him in line.”

Agnes snorts, using her polyurethane-gloved hand to toss some chicken scraps into the water.  Several other turtles swim over and start to squabble over the feast.  Fran joins them, shoving Julian, Margery, and an as-yet unnamed male aside in her quest for a choice morsel.

“You’ve mastered that skill already,” Agnes says.  “Just make sure your remarks to the adoring public in each city subtly bigot-shame him.  Of course, he hasn’t had any such outbursts I’m aware of since the conclave.  Certainly not ones that have been documented in public.”

“I can’t imagine how different this situation would be if it were Joe traveling with us instead,” Ray mutters, sprinkling wilted lettuce and carrot shreds amidst the feeding frenzy.  “We’d be in real danger.  We’ll need to be cautious in Kahnawake.  He could turn up.”

“I’m counting on it,” Vincent replies, dumping the rest of his fruit into the water.  “Hopefully I can make it a…humbling, edifying experience.”

“I have no doubt that you will, Holiness,” Aldo deadpans, watching the turtles with fascination.  “Thomas tells me they once ate a duckling?”

“Aquatic turtles are opportunistic omnivores,” Agnes explains.  “If a bird or any other small animal gets close enough and can’t escape…”

“Reminds me of the Royal Parks pelicans in London,” Aldo replies, glancing at Thomas, who still has Vincent hanging on his arm.  “Brutal.”

Thomas feels Vincent’s grasp tighten.  It’s nearly seven o’clock and he has no evening obligations.  They haven’t had time to do…well, a great number of things they’ve been wanting to do.  Thomas would like to spend the rest of the evening at home as much as Vincent.

“If nobody needs anything else from us, I think we’ll be heading back to Santa Marta,” Thomas says blandly, although the assembled company is going to see right through that.  “Time for evening prayer and contemplation is always at a premium this time of year, as is—”

“Uh-huh,” Aldo cuts in.  “Got it.  If anyone asks, you’re working on the crisis of faith.”

Thomas rolls his eyes.  “You know that’s never quite what it was, but thank you, Aldo.”

Vincent gives Agnes a meaningful look.  “Thanks for continued help with…everything.”

“My pleasure, especially since I’m now earning a salary to do it,” Agnes replies.  “Go.”

Ray waves absently, still riveted as he watches the turtles’ antics.  “Have a good night.”

Thomas doesn’t make any attempt to dislodge Vincent from his arm, and Vincent doesn’t make any attempt to let go.  They start to walk at a faster clip once they’ve reached the courtyard, hidden from prying eyes.  By the time they’re on the home stretch to Santa Marta, they’re hand in hand, as close to running as feels reasonable without raising too many eyebrows.  They’re breathless by the time they’re in the elevator, laughing.

As soon as they’ve said their good-evenings to Anton and Lorenz, Thomas locks the suite door behind them and watches Vincent impatiently pick at the laces of his Converse.  He’s double-knotted them too tightly again.  Thomas steers Vincent to the sofa, makes him sit, and kneels to do the job for him.  He can’t get enough of the way Vincent looks at him when he massages the arch of each foot after pulling his shoes off.

“I never understood why people thought of this as romantic,” Vincent admits as Thomas digs into the balls of his feet simultaneously now with his thumbs.  “Now…”  He exhales, shifting against the sofa cushion.  “I see that the chasm between theory and practice is vast.”

“What do you want?” Thomas asks candidly, releasing Vincent’s feet.  He shifts from his settled kneeling position so that he can ruck up Vincent’s cassock and insinuate himself between Vincent’s thighs.  “I’m at your service, Holiness, as both your Dean and your husband.”

“Just as my husband right now, I hope,” Vincent murmurs as Thomas leans in for a kiss.  They linger over it for half a minute, taking their time.

“You know I am, Vincent,” Thomas replies, sliding his arms around Vincent’s waist.  “I’m going to ask until you answer.  What do you want?”

Vincent kisses him again, a bit desperately.  “I want you to…”  He squirms until they’re pressed flush, shifting his hips.  “Fuck me this time, if…”

Thomas runs his fingers down Vincent’s spine.  “We did say we were going to try,” he agrees, “and I’m not…having trouble at the moment, so…”

“Take me to bed, Thomas.  I’ve missed you this week.”

“Oh, love, of course.  I’ve missed you this week, too.”

They don’t trip each other on the way to the bedroom, and the first thing Vincent does is fetch a towel and put it on the unmade bed.  They’re pragmatic in the process of removing their vestments.  Once they’re down to the plainclothes beneath, they indulge in undressing each other.  Thomas gladly lets himself be pushed down on the mattress; he’s just as gladly manhandled until his arse is planted on the towel.

The lubricant is still on the nightstand from use during simpler recent activities, so Vincent relocates it next to the pile of pillows Thomas sits propped against.  He doesn’t open it just yet.  Instead, he straddles Thomas’s lap and kisses him until they’re both hard and aching.

“Do you want me to do this?” Thomas asks softly, skimming his fingertips tentatively from Vincent’s tailbone down to tease at his rim.

Vincent nods eagerly against Thomas’s neck.  “Yes,” he says, snatching the tube, pressing it into Thomas’s hand.  “Tus dedos son…mmm.”

Thomas gets some of the lubricant on his fingers, warming it.  “I’m glad you feel they’re up to the job,” he says wryly.  “All right.  Now…”

Vincent doesn’t make a lot of noise while Thomas works him open, but his forceful, unsteady breaths tell Thomas what he needs to know.  After about ten minutes of preparation, he bears down on the three fingers Thomas has curled inside him, whimpering impatiently.

“Shhh, shhh,” Thomas soothes, withdrawing his hand.  He gives Vincent a quick kiss and gets more lubricant on his fingers, realizing that his hands are shaking.  Thomas wouldn’t have called himself nervous about this, but maybe his body knows something he doesn’t.  “So, now it’s…”

Vincent takes Thomas’s slick hand and curls it around Thomas’s cock, kissing him deeply as he moves it for him.  “Like this,” he mumbles.  “Yes.”

Getting Vincent in position to ride Thomas is a two person job.  Anyone with sense might’ve told them that this isn’t the best approach for a first attempt.  However, Thomas’s joints are in the worst shape, and this will be easiest on him.  Also, Vincent is keen to be in control of how they move, which…it would never occur to Thomas to refuse that.  Thomas swallows a tremulous noise as Vincent guides him inside.

Vincent’s thighs tremble.  He’s shaking with the effort of taking this slowly as he sinks a fraction into Thomas’s lap.  Briefly, Vincent presses his forehead against Thomas’s, trying to find his breath.  “Feels like you’re…like you’re so deep already, so good, I’m going to…”

Thomas loves Vincent for his languid, delicate pace, but he can also see the toll it’s taking on Vincent’s joints.  He takes hold of Vincent’s hips, helping him sink the rest of the way.  “You’re…you’re doing so well,” he falters, pleasure punching the breath out of him.

Vincent comes before he’s even fully flush with Thomas’s hips, moaning and shuddering.  He clamps down on Thomas, pressed achingly close as he rolls his hips down against him, riding it out as wet heat slicks their bellies.  Thomas has barely even touched him.

“Oh, darling, that’s right,” Thomas whispers, elated as Vincent curls forward, his arms wound tight around Thomas’s shoulders, making exquisitely broken sounds that Thomas would like to hear as often as possible.  Thomas pushes his hips up against Vincent once, twice, and that’s all it takes.  Vincent’s familiar weight on him, Vincent’s heat clenched tight around him—he comes, so searing it almost hurts.

“You,” Vincent gasps, “you called me…”

“Darling,” Thomas pants.  “My darling.”

Vincent moans and squirms.  “Mi cariño.”

Thomas rubs his back.  “I like that a lot.”

“Sí,” Vincent exhales, sagging.  “I agree.”

Thomas wraps a tentative hand around Vincent’s twitching cock, stroking him tenderly through the aftershocks.  He can’t even bring himself to care about their lack of stamina on this first attempt as long as Vincent is out of his mind with bliss.  Thomas shivers beneath Vincent when Vincent’s arms tighten around him, lost in aftershocks of his own.  He eases his hand off Vincent’s cock when Vincent hisses, sensitive, pressing his palm flat against Vincent’s belly instead.  Worshifully, he splays his fingers, gently pressing to feel the tremors beneath.

“Dear Vincent,” Thomas says quietly.  “Are you all right?”

Vincent nods against Thomas’s shoulder.  “Best I’ve ever…”

“Safe to say this is the best I’ve ever felt in bed, too,” Thomas allows, amused, “although we’re both going to be quite sore tomorrow.”  He grimaces as Vincent shifts off him, steadying him in the messy process of separation.  It’s a very good job they’d put down a towel.

Vincent lies on his back for a minute, breathing hard, and then rolls toward Thomas.  He slings an arm across Thomas’s lap, nuzzling his hip.

“December 20th,” Vincent mumbles with a hint of laughter in his voice.  It’s such an odd non-sequitur that, for a second, it’s concerning.

Thomas is utterly confused.  “That’s a few weeks behind us.  Aside from Goffredo’s arrival and the veneration of St. Dominic of Silos, what—”

“It’s my birthday,” Vincent says.  “And before you go blaming yourself, don’t.  I made a point of not telling you about it just yet, because I didn’t want you to feel pressured to give me more than the incalculable gifts you’ve already given.  You, yourself—you’re enough.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Shhh.  No.”

“Why didn’t you—”

“It didn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“That’s touching.”

“Mine’s September 22nd.”

“A Virgo!  That explains—”

“That’s inconsiderate.”

“It’s not if it’s true.”

“You’re…a what?”

“Sagittarius.  Barely.”

“Superstitious family?”

“My mother, to some degree.”

“Charming that it rubbed off.”

“St. Thomas of Villanueva.”

“Yes.  A feast-day namesake.”

“Then your mother chose well.”

Thomas runs his fingers through Vincent’s disarrayed hair, overwhelmed with affection.  There’s nothing for it.  The decision has been made for him.  Retroactive birthday gift shopping is what he’ll be doing next.  Just this once, he’ll allow his bank account to take the hit.

Vincent peers up at Thomas from beneath the ink-dark strands partly obscuring his face, his eyes reflecting Thomas’s fondness back at him.  “Those gears, you know that I can hear them,” he chides, reaching up to tap Thomas’s temple.  “What are you thinking about?”

“How absolutely breathtaking you’re going to look.”

“I thought you already found me—oh, Thomas, don’t—”

“There’s nothing you can do to change my mind.  It’s yours.”

“There’s no call for that.  I would never ask you to justify—”

Thomas scoots down beside Vincent and kisses him, scrambling to tug the towel up around his midsection to finally catch the tacky mess.  “You,” he says between breathless kisses, “are the Pope.  God forbid you shouldn’t have at least one piece of ostentatious finery.”

“Fine.  But it’s for your eyes only,” Vincent relents.  “And for protection, because, as you point out, I’ll be traveling a lot.  We’ll be traveling a lot.”

Thomas nods, kissing Vincent again to hear him hum contentedly.  That gives me an idea, he thinks, which is all you ever do, my love.  Never stop.

Chapter Text

The remainder of January’s services—Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord, Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, Solemnity of the Conversion of St. Paul, and Sunday of the Word of God—hadn’t even been the end of Pope Innocent’s first two months’ gauntlet of public Masses.  The end of January’s last week is capped off on February first by Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, followed by a Jubilee service honoring the Swiss Guard and Vatican security personnel on February ninth.  Vincent is visibly worn-out behind his constant public-facing generosity.

Thomas feels that whisking Vincent away to Loreto for a reprieve needs to happen before the merciless March into April sequence of Ash Wednesday through Easter Sunday.  The only services Vincent needs to be concerned with for the rest of February are those he holds at Casa Santa Marta, although those that would’ve been held on Saturday evening the ninth and Sunday morning the tenth don’t happen because Vincent is struck with a migraine.  Thomas flatly refuses to leave Vincent’s side when Ray asks if Thomas plans to lead the services in his stead.

Agnes sees to it that both of them eat during the twenty-four hours that they’re shut away, bringing full trays and removing empty ones beneath the Swiss Guards’ watchful eyes.  When Vincent has Thomas relay the sentiment that she needs to stop, as it’s below her pay grade, Agnes texts back with: All due respect to His Holiness, but please tell him to fuck off with the martyrdom until such time as he’s well again.

Thomas shows Vincent the text on Sunday night.  By then, Vincent can stand to have the lights on again, and Thomas knows that it’ll amuse him.

“I deserved that,” Vincent says with laughter in his voice, taking Thomas’s phone out of his hand.  Before Thomas can stop him, he types: 🖕🏽🥰 🙏🏽

Thomas grabs the phone.  “Are you trying to get me on Agnes’s shit list?” he grouses, which earns him mirthful kisses and apologies from Vincent.

TL
Apologies.  That wasn’t me.

SA
Do you think I can’t tell
from the choice of emojis?

TL
That’s quite a valid point.

SA
Or from the fact that it’s
emojis in the first place?

TL
Insult to injury, Agnes.

SA
HH’s physician will
need to examine him
tomorrow before he’s
cleared to return to
duty.  She’ll arrive
around ten o’clock.

TL
Thank you.  Ray could’ve
taken care of that, though.

SA
I still had Dr. Risi’s number in
recents.  Is there anything else?

Thomas lets Vincent scroll back through the exchange since he’s unsubtle about being nosy.  He takes the phone back when he decides Agnes may be better placed to help with something than Ray given the order that he thinks may run the preferred Church-owned accommodations.

“Do I really need to be declared fit to return to work?” Vincent asks, put-out.

“I know it’s frustrating,” Thomas replies, starting to type a response to Agnes.

“It wasn’t a lengthy episode,” Vincent protests sulkily.  “No seizure involved.”

“No, but the medication should control the headaches as well as the seizures.”

“Normally, it does.  I’ve...missed a few days’ doses, I admit.  I’m preoccupied.”

Thomas pulls Vincent into a hug, briefly pausing his response.  “It’s all right.”

“I should set reminders on my phone,” Vincent sighs.  “I’ve never needed to.”

“You’re tracking more minutiae in your schedule than before,” Thomas says.

TL
Is Casa Accoglienza San Giuseppe
in Loreto still operated by the Suore
Ospedaliere della Misericordia?

SA
Surely Hospitaller Sisters of Mercy
is easier for you to type as well as
pronounce?  Forgive me.  Yes, it is.

TL
Are your connections there
strong enough to arrange not
only one night’s accommodations
for yourself, myself, and His
Holiness, but also to do what
it takes to secure at least a few
uninterrupted afternoon hours
for us in the Basilica della
Santa Casa some afternoon?

SA
So, what you’re really asking
me to do is see when this is
feasible between sometime
in the coming week and a few
days before Ash Wednesday.

TL
I’m afraid that’s right, yes.

SA
Fuck you, too, Thomas.

TL
Thanks so much, Agnes.

Catching Agnes’s most recent message before Thomas turns his phone off, Vincent raises his eyebrows.  “What did you say to deserve that?”

Thomas tosses his phone on the nightstand, reaching for his book so that he can read to Vincent for a bit longer before they sleep.  “You’ll see.”

The next day, once Vincent has been given a clean bill of health, his topiramate dosage has been checked, and he’s been escorted to meet Aldo at the Apostolic Palace to make ongoing diplomatic connections, Thomas makes a modification to the clandestine errand he’d run a week prior when Vincent had been similarly occupied.  The shop staff aren’t pleased to rush an order, so they upcharge him.  They might be pleased to do so if they happened to know the identities of the items’ recipients, but disclosing that isn’t an option given one of the order’s specifications.

Agnes finds Thomas while he’s alone in the dining hall.  She takes one look at the coffee and half-eaten fruit salad in front of him, marches off for five minutes, and returns with some of that day’s soup.  Agnes takes the seat next to Thomas and slides the bowl in front of him.

“I was going to get something else once he returns for his break,” Thomas insists, looking up from the to-do list he’s been updating.  “Honest.”

“Aldo and the Holy Father send their apologies,” Agnes replies.  “I’m reliably informed that His Holiness’s absence this morning pushed back several appointments, so neither of them will be joining you.  Even I have to be back at the Press Office in about forty-five minutes.  Eat.”

“Why are you wasting time on me when you could be on your way?” Thomas asks, instantly regretting it when her expression turns pinched.

“I’ve worked with Ray to clear His Holiness’s schedule on Friday the twenty-first and to make sure nothing gets scheduled for the next day given we’ll be gone overnight,” Agnes says.  “Since this isn’t an official visit, no one aside from the sisters hosting us and the basilica clergy will know of his presence in the city.  As you know, the trip takes three hours.  We’ll be taken straight to the basilica and given left to our own devices while it’s closed for two hours.  That’s all the Prelature could spare on short notice.  I declined a tour guide, citing your knowledge.”

“There aren’t enough thanks in the world,” Thomas replies, “so I’m going to start eating this now.  I’ll send photographic proof once I’m done.”

Agnes rises, tapping Thomas’s arm with the back of her hand.  “If you know what’s good for you, then you’ll text it to him.  You’re welcome.”

Vincent doesn’t respond to Thomas’s text until he gets home, falling into Thomas’s arms.  That speaks volumes to the busy day that it’s been.

Thomas waits until after they’ve eaten a late dinner, while they’re getting ready for bed, to tell Vincent where they’re going in just over two weeks.

“I know that it must be hard to keep my presence anywhere a secret,” Vincent whispers between breathless kisses.  “You and Agnes work miracles.”

“These arrangements are Agnes’s doing, so please thank her when you get the chance,” Thomas demurs, but he doesn’t turn down the kisses.

Thomas spends the next week feeling nervous that his order at Mondo Cattolico won’t be ready by the twentieth.  He also spends a handful of Vincent’s afternoon breaks in the bedroom instead of the dining hall, because Vincent is irritable, and he can at least remedy that.

Mondo Cattolico texts Thomas past mid-afternoon on the nineteenth.  The message arrives while he and Vincent are dozing, still naked, with only half an hour until Vincent is due back at the Palace.  Thomas wakes Vincent with a slow kiss and offers to walk him back to work.

Thomas swings by the shop on St. Peter’s Square once he’s left Vincent at the Palace.  The young woman at the till takes his order number, disappears into the back, and returns fifteen minutes later with a handled white gift bag and a folded piece of A4.  She’s apologetic.

“My supervisor knows that you didn’t request it, but she regrets this didn’t get taken outside to receive our Holy Father’s blessing during the Angelus on Sunday.  She remembered two Sundays ago when they first arrived from our supplier, but His Holiness was ill, so there was no…”

Thomas watches the color drain from the sales associate’s face as she opens the folded A4, sees his name on the invoice, and then blinks at him.  

“I’m so sorry, Eminence Lawrence,” blurts the associate.  “You…of course you already know that, apologies.  Is His Holiness feeling better?”

“Please don’t apologize,” Thomas replies, watching her painstakingly refold and tuck the invoice in the bag once she’s looked over it.  “He is.”

The sales associate nods, handing him the bag.  There’s a strange cast to her hazel eyes as she parts her lips again, and she struggles for words as Thomas takes the bag.  “Please tell him he’s been in my prayers since the day I heard the news of his election.  As have you, from the moment I heard that you’d be—”  She stops herself short, abruptly anxious.  “Just…know you’re both in my prayers, Eminence.”  The sales associate collects herself, but her odd, candid look lingers.  “The gifts you chose for your relatives are beautiful.  May God bless their union.”

“Thanks, and may God bless you,” Thomas says, swallowing the lump in his throat.  “What’s your name?”  He backpedals.  “I’m sorry, you don’t—”

“Elysia,” says the sales associate, without hesitation.  “Elysia Zangari.”

“How beautiful,” Thomas replies.  “Your family must be Greek-Italian?” 

Elysia nods.  “Here for generations, though.  Not Orthodox anymore.”

“We are all His children,” Thomas says.  “Your name sounds familiar.”

Elysia swallows.  “I’ve just started this job, but…my family was in the news a decade back, off and on.  I had an older cousin who went missing for a while.”  She shifts from one foot to the other, her breath hissing through her teeth.  “We didn’t know if she was alive or dead.”

Thomas reaches for the young woman’s hand, and she places hers in his.  “It sounds as if she’s been found?  Thanks be to God if that’s the case.”

Elysia nods hesitantly.  “I know where Paola is,” she says.  “Not even that far from home in the grand scheme.  I text with her now and then.”

“And she…hasn’t wanted contact with the rest of your family?”

“The rest of our family hasn’t wanted contact with her, either.”

“I’d ask why, but you’ve already told me more than you’re obliged—”

“It does my soul good to confess, Eminence.  We’re alone out here.”

Thomas gives her a slow nod.  “Why is this the situation with Paola?”

Paola squeezes her eyes shut, tightening her grasp on Thomas’s hand.  “Our family refuses to call her anything but her birth name, which…”

Thomas only needs to do a few seconds’ worth of mental math.  “Which is not her name,” he says after considering several responses.

Elysia opens her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks.  “You don’t think…”  She clings to Thomas’s hand.  “It’s not a sin to accept her?”

“A decade ago, I would’ve told you I didn’t know what I thought about that,” Thomas confesses in return.  “But now, I’d be a hypocrite to tell you now that you’ve sinned.  Only God can be the judge, but why would He judge you for loving your cousin when your family will not?”

Elysia brings one hand to her mouth to stifle a sob even as she breaks into a smile.  “Thank you, Eminence,” she whispers behind her hand.

Thomas carefully extracts his hand and makes the sign of the cross over her.  “Go in peace,” he says, and then smiles.  “Rather, I’ll do that.”

Elysia laughs, and then grabs a tissue from the box next to the till.  “Amen,” she says, blowing her nose.  “Thanks be to God.  Thank you.”

Thomas leaves as another customer enters the shop.  He retreats along the arcade, lest his impending tears get the better of him where Elysia can see.  He realizes belatedly, beneath his own flood of emotion, that he’s the one who ought to be grateful that this young woman was the one to serve him and see him off.  One too-close inspection of the paperwork associated with his order, and she’d seen through his claim that the items are for newlywed relatives…although she’d been fiercely supportive enough, maybe thanks to her cousin, to uphold his cover.

For the remainder of the day that Thomas is alone (Vincent doesn’t make it back for his break), he tries not to think too hard about how those with eyes to see will always understand what they’re looking at.  He wonders how many of them will stay silent, and he wonders for how long Agnes’s PR efforts will continue to discredit the ill-intentioned parties who do not.  Thomas thinks about a young woman in Venice named Paola who, in an adjacent sense to Vincent, also knows what it is to exist between the world’s certainties.  For her and Elysia, he’ll pray.

The evening before their departure for Loreto, while they’re packing their overnight bags, Vincent points out that they’ll have a better shot at evading notice if they forgo choir dress and stick to plainclothes with clerical collars.  Thomas hesitates for a split second.  On the one hand, it’s one of the holiest Marian shrines in Christendom; on the other, they won’t be performing Mass, and this isn’t a ceremonial visit.  He’s ultimately relieved to agree that a pair of priests will draw less attention coming and going, as far as their entrance and exit from the basilica.

On the ride, Agnes about has a heart attack when she realizes that not only do they have no intention of changing into their formal vestments, but they haven’t even brought them.  Once she’s recovered, Thomas half expects she’s going to give each of them a smack upside the head given that she’s seated behind them in the discreet, dark van with tinted windows, but she just sits back and mutters to herself in French.  Vincent casts an amused sidelong glance at Thomas, taking his hand against the seat, twining their fingers.  Thomas barely manages not to laugh.

Once they’ve arrived, Agnes wakes Thomas and Vincent from their dozing—humbling, that a woman with a decade on Thomas and nearly two decades on Vincent has more fortitude when it comes to staying awake on a three-hour drive—and hands each of them a face mask.  She’s already wearing one; her eyes track over each of them impatiently as they put theirs on.  It’s a clever addition to the half-disguise already in play.

Rather than crossing the stately plaza in front of the Basilica della Santa Casa with its fountain and its statue of Pope Sixtus V, Anton and Lorenz (in the driver’s and passenger’s seat) drop them off at the Porta Romana, where they’re met by the Archbishop of Loreto…who’s likewise dressed down, Thomas notes with silent satisfaction.  Agnes rolls her eyes at him as they’re welcomed effusively and led into the basilica through a discreet back entrance.  The Archbishop halts them just inside, waiting until Anton and Lorenz have parked the van and caught up.

“That’s all you need to know,” says the Archbishop, effusively.  “It’s our greatest honor to host you today, Your Holiness, however briefly.”  He kisses Vincent’s ring when Vincent belatedly remembers to offer his hand, and then bows to Thomas.  “Likewise, Your Eminence.”

“Thank you, Archbishop.  However, Sister Agnes was entirely instrumental in facilitating this visit,” Vincent points out with a patient, but visibly strained smile.  “Dean Lawrence and I wouldn’t be here if not for her acting as a liaison with you and with the Hospitaller Sisters of Mercy.  I’ve been flooded at best and drowning at worst as I settle into the expectations of this office.  I would be lost without Sister Agnes’s exceptional part-time clerical interventions on my behalf and as the newly appointed Full-Time Vice Director of the Holy See Press Office.”

The Archbishop turns to Agnes, his eyes betraying a touch of shock, but he recovers quickly.  “Congratulations are in order, Sister.  You have my deepest thanks for reaching out to ensure that this most sacred of Our Mother’s shrines has been blessed by the Holy Father’s presence.”

“You’re most welcome, Archbishop,” Agnes replies, removing her mask.  She gives Thomas and Vincent a loaded glance, indicating she feels it’s only polite that all three of them should reveal their faces to their host, whose face is on full display.  “We should meet you back here?”

“Yes,” confirms the Archbishop as the three of them tuck their masks in their pockets, seemingly fascinated now as he focuses on Vincent.  “On this spot, no later than two and a half hours from now.”  He nods gratefully to Anton and Lorenz, who salute him.  “Please enjoy your time.”

None of them say a word until the Archbishop has walked off and vanished from sight.  Vincent glances longingly into the grand, gilt-and-painted space that awaits him, but he knows that he needs to give orders.  He meets Thomas’s reassuring gaze, and then addresses the guards.

“All of the entrances and exits, including this one, are now locked,” Vincent tells them, “as long as the Archbishop’s word can be trusted, and the three of us do trust it.  Please follow us closely at all times.  Thomas and I will be entering the shrine first to say our devotions, and then Agnes will do the same once we’ve finished.  Please station yourselves at the foot of the ramp into the marble structure around the Holy House while we do so.  Once Agnes has finished, the three of us will wait outside the shrine if each of you, one at a time, likewise wish to enter and pray.”

“That is generous, Your Holiness.  I would like to do so,” Lorenz replies without hesitation.

Anton considers, perhaps assembling a prayer roll, and then says: “I forgot my rosary, Father.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Agnes sighs, rummaging in her shoulder bag.  “Here.  I have a spare.”

As the five of them make their unhurried way to the shrine, mostly on account of Vincent keeping their progress slow with the sheer number of photographs he’s already taking, Agnes hangs back and falls into step with Thomas.  She watches Anton and Lorenz try to keep up with Vincent, shaking her head in fond amusement.  And then she turns serious, elbowing Thomas hard in the side as she sucks in an ominous breath.

“You didn’t forget them, I hope?” Agnes asks.  “This is one case in which I didn’t pack spares.”

“In my pocket,” Thomas mutters, elbowing her back.  “Be quiet.  What must you think of me?”

Agnes heaves a sigh of relief.  She looks ahead to where Vincent stands, expectantly waiting.

Thomas gives Agnes a grateful look and hurries to join Vincent.  They’re only steps away from the ramp leading into Donato Bramante’s elaborately carved Late Gothic marble structure housing the shrine.  Once Anton, Lorenz, and Agnes have parked themselves at the foot of the ramp, Vincent starts up it, glancing over his shoulder at Thomas.  Thomas’s stomach flips, but he follows Vincent, unwinding his rosary from his wrist.

They pause side by side as the close, dust-moted silence of incense and ancient stone envelops them.  This isn’t Thomas’s first time inside the shrine, although he is startled to realize that the four low-hanging braziers overhead have been lit, as have four tall white tapers on the marble altar just below the statue of the Black Madonna and Child in all their gilt majesty.  Two floral sprays of white irises and yellow roses have been placed between the sets of candles, flanking the crucifix placed at the center of the tableau at Mary’s feet.  And then he looks at Vincent.

“They haven’t set up the prie-dieu a few feet back,” Vincent says, entranced as he takes Thomas’s hand, leading him across the diamond-patterned floor toward the low, centuries-worn marble steps leading up to the altar.  “I saw it in pictures online, from when the late Holy Father was here.”

“Holiness,” Thomas says, pausing as Vincent pauses before mounting the first step.  “Don’t underestimate how welcome you are,” he murmurs, coaxing Vincent up the stairs until they’re on the broadest one directly before the altar.  Underfoot, it’s covered in a hand-knotted Persian rug as fine as the Burano lace draped over the altar itself.  “Vincent,” Thomas whispers, angling them to face each other.  “How loved you are.”

Vincent steps right into Thomas’s space without hesitation, kissing him chastely on the lips.  “Don’t underestimate how welcome you are, either, Cardinal,” he whispers back, the most curious mix of reverent and mischievous Thomas has ever seen.  “With what desire you’ve been received here,” Vincent continues, touching the rosary at Thomas’s wrist, “John, my Beloved.  This is where pilgrims kneel in devotion, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas agrees, hiding the mild frustration at having been momentarily thwarted in his intentions.  He permits Vincent to help him to his knees, turning to face the altar as Vincent kneels beside him, unspooling his own rosary from his wrist.  “Let us pray.”

They haven’t often prayed silently like this, each of them with his own rosary, but they fall into a comfortable rhythm: the movements of their fingers, the clacking of beads.  Vincent finishes first, and he’s gazing at the Virgin in patient contemplation when Thomas finally opens his eyes.  Thomas follows suit, studying the stars that form Her crown, the sequence of black crescent moons down the front of Her gilt robe.

“There’s a prayer that you say before flying, isn’t there?” Vincent murmurs distantly.  “Maybe we should say it for when we’re traveling in June.”

“There are too many permutations of it to name at this point, but I do prefer the original text decreed by Pope Benedict XV in 1920,” Thomas replies, and then addresses his next words to the Madonna looming over them.  “O merciful God, You have consecrated the house of the Blessed Virgin Mary with the mystery of the Word Incarnate and placed it in the midst of Your children.  Pour forth Your blessing on this vehicle so that those who take an aerial trip in it may happily reach their destination and return safely home under Mary’s protection.”

“Amen,” Vincent says as they cross themselves.  “We should take time to appreciate the walls of the house and the frescoes over the door before—”

“Wait,” Thomas says, grasping Vincent’s forearm, preventing him from rising.  His knees hate him at this point, but so must Vincent’s.  “I know we shouldn’t linger too long, but…ah, there’s one more thing,” he falters, fishing in his pocket for the single burgundy velvet box he’s used to consolidate the items.  “I did promise you a birthday gift, not a surprise,” Thomas continues, opening the box as Vincent scoffs fondly and shakes his head at the Virgin because Agnes isn’t there to commiserate, “but this is a little more than that.  My dear, take a closer look.”

Vincent takes the box and lifts one of the two tiny, sealed plastic bags, indeed shocked to see a second sitting against the velvet inside the box.  He picks that one up, too, eyeing the matching gold medals on their matching gold Venetian chains with an attitude of increasing disbelief.

“Gold isn’t cheap right now,” is all Vincent manages to say, stunned.

“Well…no,” Thomas replies hesitantly, terrified he’s fucked this up.

Vincent stuffs both bags into one hand and crushes Thomas in his embrace.  “No son por mi cumpleaños.  Son porque estamos comprometidos,” he says, choking up.  “Sé que nuestros amigos dicen que ya estamos casados, pero con mucho gusto te digo que sí una vez más.”

This isn’t for my birthday.  It’s because we’re engaged.  I know that our friends say we’re already married, but I gladly say “yes” to you once again.

Thomas stifles his own joyful tears against Vincent’s shoulder.  They stay like that for a few minutes and, once they’ve drawn apart, he pries the Our Lady of Loreto medals out of Vincent’s hand.  He removes them from their bags one at a time, putting one around Vincent’s neck and one around his own; he tucks them beneath their collars right away, removing the risk of scrutiny from Anton, Lorenz, and the Archbishop.

“I’m gladly saying yes to you once again, too,” Thomas whispers, brushing the tears from Vincent’s cheeks.  “Come.  Let’s give the others a turn.”

Agnes is crying happy tears at the foot of the ramp.  She brushes off Thomas’s and Vincent’s attempts to embrace her, tutting sternly, marching up the ramp and into the shrine.  Anton and Lorenz don’t break, don’t so much as look at any of them, which is likely simple after the magnitude of everything else that they’ve chosen to ignore out of loyalty not just to Vincent as Innocent XIV, but Vincent as Vincent.

Twenty minutes is about how long it takes until Agnes emerges.  That’s given Thomas and Vincent plenty of time to collect themselves.  Lorenz asks if he and Anton can go in together in order to save time, although Thomas can tell that it’s because the guards would like to give the three of them a moment; Vincent agrees to it readily.  As soon as both guards have entered the shrine, Agnes puts her arms around both of them.  If the Archbishop is watching, what he’ll think he’s seeing is a weepy prayer circle since it’s the new Pope’s first time here.

By the time the guards are finished, they’ve spent about eighty minutes at the shrine.  The rest of the tour is rushed, but Thomas manages to show and explain the highlights of the basilica to Vincent in such a way that he’ll be eager for their next visit.  They’re seen off by the Archbishop in the same state in which they’d been greeted: masked once more, hustled out the back as soon as Anton and Lorenz have brought the van.

Given that it’s now around five, they’re all tired and hungry.  On arrival at Casa Accoglienza San Giuseppe, Agnes squares away the guards’ check-in first, hands them their keys, and lets the Mother Superior show them where their shared room and the dining hall are located.  Thomas finds what happens next peculiar, as Agnes completes check-in for the remaining two rooms, but he doesn’t question it given Agnes’s authority.

“To confirm,” Agnes says to the young nun at the desk who hands her the key-rings, “that’s one room with two twins for His Holiness and the Dean, and one with a double bed for my poor old bones to sprawl?”  The young nun nods, shrugging self-deprecatingly.  “Thank you, Sister.” 

The Mother Superior returns as the three of them are turning from the desk.  “Your guards have gone to eat.  Shall I show you to your rooms?”

“That’s not necessary, Venerable Mother,” Agnes reassures her.  “I remember my way around from a few years ago.  I’ll show His Holiness and the Dean where they are once we’ve eaten, too.  We’ll be joining our friends in the dining room now.  Thanks for your hospitality.”

Dinner is nothing elaborate, although the food is better than what’s served on a daily basis at Casa Santa Marta.  Thomas and Vincent raise their eyebrows at each other about that, but they tactfully don’t mention it.  Agnes waits until Anton and Lorenz have left to instruct Thomas and Vincent, in a tone that brooks no argument from either of them, to follow her to the elevator so that she can show them where they are. 

Once they’re in the elevator, Agnes hands Vincent two of the three keyrings, presumably identical, and tells him the room number.  “I’ll be at your door in the morning, nine o’clock.  Anton and Lorenz will meet us downstairs.  We’ll check out together, understood?”

When the elevator door opens on their floor, Agnes takes off brusquely to the left.  Thomas shrugs at Vincent, glancing at the door numbers until he’s got the shape of which direction they’re in.  He leads them to the right, stops in front of the number Agnes had quoted, and watches Vincent slot one of the two keys into the lock.  For a few seconds, Thomas wonders if there’s been a mistake, but when Vincent starts to laugh he realizes what Agnes has done.  He approaches the lone double bed in the middle of the clean, plain, modestly-sized room.

“I truly do hope we’re the only current guests here like Agnes said we’d be,” Thomas manages while Vincent, ever pragmatic, sets both of their bags down next to one of the nightstands and digs a few things out of his own.  “Because if we’re not, this is just…asking for it.”

“Well, are you?” Vincent asks hopefully.

“Am I what?” Thomas replies, baffled.

“Asking for it,” Vincent says, grinning.

Thomas sits down on the edge of the bed and unties his shoes.  “I have no idea why I bother,” he sighs with mock severity.  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“All I needed to know,” Vincent replies, sounding as happy as he had in the shrine, but without the tears.  He turns down the covers, and then goes to flip on the bathroom lights and investigate the amenities.  He returns with a plain white towel, which he spreads on the mattress.

Thomas turns once he’s shoeless, blinking at Vincent’s efficient preparations.  He snags Vincent’s hand once Vincent has unlaced and kicked out of his own shoes, pulling him into his lap.  Thomas can’t be too disappointed when Vincent immediately kisses him so hard that they both topple backwards, laughing furtively into each other’s mouths.  When Thomas’s phone buzzes, he sobers and presses several fingers to Vincent’s lips.

Thomas wrestles his phone out of his pocket.  The text is from Agnes: I can hear you carrying on like schoolboys from here.  Quiet! He shows the text to Vincent, who looks chastened for a few seconds before he takes the phone, drops it on the floor, and kisses Thomas again.

“If you don’t take your clothes off, I’ll do it for you,” Vincent pants in Thomas’s ear once he’s pulled away to catch his breath.  “What’ll it be?”

“Hmmm,” Thomas says, more than a little breathless himself, mindful of keeping his voice down.  “Think that I might’ve forgotten how to do that.”

Vincent loosens Thomas’s clerical collar, making a mock unimpressed face down at him.  “Maybe I should be worried about your age after all.”

What actually ends up happening is more of an exercise in restraint, which…Thomas is impressed with them given how impatient they’ve been since the shrine.  They don’t rush undressing each other, taking plenty of detours to kiss and touch while they’re at it.  Thomas is also impressed with how Vincent has managed to steer them so that they’re reclining against the pillows and the rather scratchy towel is under them.

Thomas watches Vincent’s eyes light on his medal, ignoring his own in favor of plucking Thomas’s to get a closer look at it.  That’s easier than looking down at his own; the chains are just long enough to allow for that, but an upside-down angle is less than desirable.

“Did you not think of your own beauty,” Vincent asks, offering the same quiet smile as he had when they were alone in the Room of Tears, “how striking gold might be against your skin?”  He runs his thumb over the Virgin’s likeness, pressing the medal against Thomas’s chest before taking it in his grasp, running his index finger over the back—blinking at Thomas in wonder when he realizes something is engraved there.

Thomas returns his smile, overwhelmed with tenderness.  He presses a kiss against Vincent’s lips, and then his cheek, and then just beneath his earlobe.  “Turn it over,” he whispers, delighted to feel Vincent shiver in his arms, pulling him in by the waist.  “Turn both of them over.”

Vincent folds against Thomas for a moment first, content just to be held.  He nuzzles against Thomas’s neck in kind, his grasp on Thomas’s medal tightening even as his free hand seeks out his own.  He draws back and flips the medals, bringing both side by side between them.

Thomas resists the urge to hold his breath as Vincent reads the inscriptions, because he hadn’t been sure which of them had gotten which version given the relative haste with which they’d needed to put them on in the shrine.  He’s wearing the Spanish original text of the verse fragment, it turns out, and Vincent is wearing the English translation of those same lines from the corresponding refrain in Loreena McKennitt’s recording.

Vincent has to squint as much as Thomas given how small the four lines are in each case.  He reads them aloud one after the other, his voice soft: 

Oh, noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado
transformada

Oh, night that joined
the lover to the beloved one,
transforming each of them
into the other

“I wasn’t intentionally hiding the inscriptions from you. I knew that there likely wouldn’t be any time to point these out in the shrine,” Thomas explains as Vincent continues to track his increasingly wet, glittering eyes over the inscriptions, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.  “The online customization form doesn’t allow for this many lines of text, so I had to make a nuisance of myself in person.  I told the staff they were wedding tokens for a couple close to me.  It took a fair bit of cajoling and a considerable upcharge for them to have their jeweler polish out the ‘Vaticano’ stamp and then do delicate laser engraving, but—”  His chest aches as Vincent looks up at him with tears threatening to spill over for a second time that day.  “Ah, getting to the point, we can trade if you’d rather have the Spanish text than the translation, I honestly don’t—”

“No,” Vincent says with disbelieving joy, wiping his eyes.  “I think God guided your hand.”  He lets his medal drop and sets Thomas’s medal back against his chest.  “You know that I prefer the McKennitt translation to Peers, so you used it.  And I don’t have to remind you what happened when I whispered that exact part in your ear—in Spanish, no less—the night you knocked on my door and asked me to change my vote.”

At first, Thomas feels awful that his reaction to the memory is to burst out laughing, but Vincent is only a beat behind him, collapsing in Thomas’s arms again.  “Not to speak ill of the pleasure you’ve given me on each of the nights, each of the mornings, and even the odd afternoon since then,” he replies, speaking right against Vincent’s ear, “but I’ll never be over that one.  I still can’t sort out if it was more your touch or your voice.”

“Is it vain of me to hope that it was a combination of both?”

“Dear Vincent, you know that it was.  I wish I’d done better.”

“Better than…what, Thomas?  I’m not sure that I understand.”

“I should have touched your skin the way you touched mine.”

Vincent kisses Thomas fiercely, pushing him back against the pile of pillows.  He slides a leg over Thomas, squirming until he’s settled comfortably on top of him.  “You know how much I like this, right?” Vincent asks, making Thomas shiver as he presses them flush from chest to hips.  “Who cares if our clothes were mostly still on.  I’d never felt like that just touching myself, never in my life.  Don’t look so scandalized.”

“Oh, you mean this, on my face?” Thomas asks.  “This isn’t scandalization,” he clarifies, cupping Vincent’s jaw.  “This is admiration.  Wish I’d had the nerve nearly so often.  I might’ve known what I like.  It’d be nice to give you ready answers when you so thoughtfully ask.”

“I didn’t know that I liked this until you were holding me,” Vincent replies.  “That’s my point, or…part of it.  You had a sharp instinct that night.  Granted, I would’ve liked your hand on me, too, if you’d been able to stay.  But I know you and Agnes had work to do.”

Thomas takes that as carte blanche to snag the tube of lubricant off the nightstand and slick his fingers.  He doesn’t waste any time closing Vincent’s half-hard cock in his fist, giving Vincent the twisting, unhurried strokes that’ll get him the rest of the way there.

Vincent gasps loudly, dropping his head to Thomas’s shoulder.  He bites down, a bright shock of pain, and then runs his tongue over the spot to soothe it.  “You were sent to try my faith,” he sighs, a bit too happily to actually mean what he’s saying.  “That’s the only explanation.”

“Agnes says that we have to be quiet, remember?” Thomas whispers, and then gives Vincent a worshipful kiss.  He rolls his hips up against Vincent’s, leisurely and teasing, holding Vincent impossibly close when he makes a muffled, but tremulous sound into Thomas’s mouth.

“Coñazo,” Vincent hisses, but within seconds he’s kissing Thomas back just as adoringly for somebody who’s just called his partner a pain in the arse.  “I don’t even want to know how much these—” he tangles his fingers in the chains of their medals, rough this time “—set you back.”

“There’s my darling,” Thomas replies.  Between that and wrapping his hand around both of them now, urging Vincent to move however he wants, he knows he’s playing about as unfairly as it’s possible to play.  “I don’t care how much trouble you cause for me tonight.  I’m not telling.”

“You like it when I cause trouble.”

“I do—far too much.  Never stop.”

Vincent trembles and presses his mouth against Thomas’s neck, already writhing as he pushes into Thomas’s touch.  “Amado,” he whimpers.

Thomas inhales shakily, peeling his hand away from working their cocks.  He wraps his arms around Vincent.  “Amada,” he murmurs.  “Shhh.”

“I love what you did with them,” Vincent gasps.  He clings sweetly to Thomas’s neck while Thomas keeps a tight hold on his hips, steadying him as his movements grow increasingly erratic.  “You couldn’t—ah, ah, Thomas, you couldn’t—have chosen better. I love you.”

“I would’ve had them engrave the whole poem on both medals if I could,” Thomas says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Vincent’s mouth, shushing him.  “This ensures that we have them well ahead of the visit to Santa Fé, at least.  That was also my intention. I love you, too.”

Vincent stops moving, biting Thomas’s shoulder again—so hard this time that he’s just shy of breaking the skin.  When Vincent comes, he doesn’t make a sound, but he shakes as violently as Thomas remembers from that wondrous first night when he’d been just as silent.

Thomas buries his face in Vincent’s hair, the air punched out of his lungs as he follows several seconds behind.  He feels Vincent cradle the back of his head with one hand and insinuate the other between them, coaxing his bliss from him with taut, firm strokes, drawing it out.

“You liked that,” Vincent whispers with undisguised satisfaction.  He kisses Thomas to keep him quiet through the aftershocks, petting his softening cock before releasing it.  He draws up one side of the towel, cleaning them as best he can.  “Was it the right kind of pain?”

Thomas feels hazy, love-addled as he hugs Vincent to his chest, searching for words.  “When you bit me, you mean?”

“Yes,” Vincent replies, nuzzling into Thomas’s neck.  He play-bites this time, which tickles more than anything.

“I think…it was.  I liked the sting.”

“You came the second time I did it.”

“I’ve come for most things you do.”

“Stay put.  I’ll take care of the mess.”

While Vincent gets up to fetch a washcloth and then light the candles set at intervals around the space—a concession that Agnes had likely requested for both rooms, lest anything should seem odd—Thomas briefly falls into a doze.  He wakes again when Vincent crawls back under the covers next to him, his heart skipping a beat as Vincent remains propped on one elbow, wistfully gazing down at him, strokes his hair.

“Do you have any idea how breathtaking you are by candlelight?” Thomas sighs, tracing Vincent’s lips with careful fingers.

Vincent breaks into a smile.  “You seemed to think that before, so I figured…”  He shrugs.  “Why not test the theory again?”

“Don’t think I can manage again,” Thomas replies, tugging Vincent to lie against his chest, “but I’ll make you feel good.”

“I don’t want to risk making noise again,” Vincent says, kissing him softly.  “Promise you won’t find the question I’m about to ask a morbid one.”

Thomas runs a fingertip from Vincent’s forehead down to his nose.  “At my age, with my history?  You’d have to try very hard to accomplish that.”

Vincent nods, drawing a deliberate breath.  “Have you given any thought to where you want to be buried?  If you have, is it in Rome or…elsewhere?”

“I don’t think that’s an unreasonable question,” Thomas says reassuringly.  “When I was ill, Aldo got on my case about it, as he knew that I don’t have any relatives left who are close enough to consult.  My case wasn’t so far advanced that I sincerely thought he’d need to be my executor, but one never knows.  I told him that any plot for a cardinal or clergy of lower rank would do.”  He tucks his chin over the top of Vincent’s head when Vincent lowers it against Thomas’s collarbone and fusses with Thomas’s medal.  “I hope that it’s not insensitive to ask in return?”

Vincent shrugs dismissively.  “I’ve never given it much thought,” he admits, “because I assumed chances were high that there might not be anything to bury.  Either that, or I’d be at the mercy of whatever patch of ground my colleagues and parishioners might find most convenient.  Now…”  Vincent tightens his arm around Thomas’s ribcage.  “I’ll be buried in either St. Peter’s Basilica or the Basilica of St. Mary Major if my last dozen predecessors’ resting places are any indicator.  Is it even possible to choose an alternative location to St. Peter’s that’s not St. Mary Major?”

Thomas takes Vincent’s right hand, running his thumb pointedly over Vincent’s ring.  “Leo XIII, whose seal design you’ve borrowed,” he says gently, kissing the engraving, “isn’t buried in either St. Peter’s or St. Mary.  He chose St. John Lateran.  John XII and Stephen VI are there, too.”

Relaxing as Thomas rubs his back, Vincent mulls this over for a while.  He ventures at length, “Has any Pope chosen a location outside the Vatican?”

“Only thirty are buried outside of Rome,” Thomas replies.  “Other places in Italy include L’Aquila, Arezzo, Cinto Euganeo, Recanati, and Salerno.”

“How recent are those burials?”

“Apt question.  Middle Ages, all.”

“That’s…not encouraging, then.”

“Vincent, what disturbs you about—”

“I’d like the remote possibility of you being somewhere nearby, at least,” Vincent says irritably, “but I don’t get the impression that cardinals are always considered important enough to be laid to rest in St. Peter’s, at least not in the present!”  He picks at the pillowcase next to Thomas’s head, and then slaps it in frustration.  “So, my reasoning is…if I were to choose a location outside of the Vatican, outside of Rome altogether…”

Thomas struggles to sit up against the pillows, tugging Vincent with him.  He refuses to have the rest of this conversation without looking Vincent in the eye.  Now that he knows why Vincent is asking this delicate question, it’s far too momentous to risk miscommunication.

“You would forfeit that honor just to see to it we’re laid to rest under the same roof?” Thomas asks, finding no misgivings in Vincent’s gaze.

“In the same tomb beneath the floor of an insignificant side chapel, if it should come to it,” Vincent replies.  “On our way out of the shrine earlier…”

Thomas stares at him.  “No Pope is buried here.  Of course, there’s Cardinal d’Amboise—we saw his resting place—but he was buried in 1511.”

Vincent shrugs, stubbornly unmoved.  “Surely if you made your wishes known in your will, I made my wishes known in mine, and I exercised whatever additional authority might be required—then it would be a foregone conclusion?  Wouldn’t it be an additional honor for this basilica, already a pilgrimage site of considerable renown, to eventually have a Papal interment and another cardinal to its name.  Maybe I’m naïve.”

“You speak as if you know just the spot you’d like after a single visit.”

“That octagonal chapel with the Signorelli paintings and Majolica tiles.”

Thomas’s heart leaps abruptly to his throat.  “Oh, love, you’re a menace.”

Vincent shifts back into Thomas’s lap, his expression a mix of relieved and anything but innocent.  “The Sacristy of St. John isn’t fitting enough?”

Thomas grasps Vincent’s medal, using the chain to tug him close.  “Make it so, and when the time comes?  I’ll gladly be laid to rest with you there.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps it’s the simplicity of the room—even simpler than those at Santa Marta—that keeps them in a misbehaving-at-seminary mood.  They doze for a few hours, shower long enough to make the water run cold, and then clamber back into bed with their skin still damp.

“Agnes would never forgive us for all of the giggling if we played Truth or Dare,” Vincent ventures, running his fingers from Thomas’s shoulder down to his wrist, where he curls them around into a familiar, comforting hold, “but maybe we could settle for Truth?”

“If there are questions you’d like to ask,” Thomas replies, keeping his voice down lest his phone buzz with another scolding, “then you need no excuse to ask them.  I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know, past or present.  I trust that you would do me the same courtesy.”

Vincent presses an open-mouthed kiss to the back of Thomas’s neck, making Thomas shiver.  “Past,” he chooses decisively.  “You had mentioned kissing Aldo just once after too much communion-wine sampling.  Why didn’t it lead to anything more than that?”

“Aldo calls you his brother-in-law for a reason,” Thomas laughs as Vincent claps a hand over his mouth.  “That incident’s awkwardness was enough to prove we were better suited as family.  I consider us lucky to have realized that early on.  It’s saved us a lot of grief.”

Vincent nods, loosening his grasp after Thomas kisses his palm.  “I’m grateful to him for being a brother to you beyond just our religious bonds,” he admits.  “I can’t imagine either of you navigating the pressures of life in the Vatican without each other for support.”  Vincent falls silent, pensive.  “Aldo does experience attraction to men, though, correct?  I want to make sure I’ve interpreted a handful of comments correctly.  He’s not forthcoming about his personal life outside his friendship with you and Ray.  With me and Agnes, too, in recent months.”

Much though Thomas is enjoying being the little spoon, he rolls onto his back so he can look Vincent in the eyes.  “Aldo has always been like that.  I think that he didn’t want to make me feel worse about my unrequited feelings for our classmate, Eric, or about my confusion whenever I felt attraction toward a woman, too.  The years have lent me perspective.  I no longer feel confused about my attraction to others, period, although it feels strange to say it aloud, much less call myself bisexual.  In any case, Aldo is both private and mindful of his loved ones.”

“You can admit that it’s still not easy,” Vincent says quietly, tucking his head beneath Thomas’s chin and curling an arm tightly around his middle.  “Even for me, it’s still not easy putting precise words to anything outside discussions of my difference.”  He throws a leg across Thomas’s, too; it’s endearing, how securely he traps Thomas.  “I’m reassured to hear about your history of attraction, though.  Precedent suggests you weren’t going to be disgusted by me once you got around any…mental blocks?  Maybe it’s kinder to say psychological reservations.”

“Age and experience have made most of the difference for both of us,” Thomas murmurs, closing his eyes as he nuzzles Vincent’s clean, faintly wet hair.  “If that’s an untrue statement in any way where you’re concerned, feel free to tell me off.”  He holds Vincent as tightly as Vincent is holding him, aware that their medals have pooled against his chest due to how they’re arranged.  “You must be wondering about the current state of Aldo’s love life.  I adore you, but you’re not being half as clever as you think you are.  That, I don’t think I’m wrong about.”

“What’s the English expression?  So sue me?” Vincent asks with a shrug, fessing up to curiosity now that he’s been caught.  “So sue me, I want to know.  You should know better than anyone that a Pope who sins is not only a Pope who meddles, but also a Pope who gossips.”

Thomas couldn’t be more in love with Vincent than he is right now.  And no wonder Ray appreciates Vincent so much; he’d have nothing if he couldn’t gossip.  “You didn’t hear this from me,” Thomas says, “but Aldo has had…”  He pauses, considering the best way to phrase it.  “He’s had a long-term arrangement that’s sometimes a relationship.  I think they’ve taken time off at least twice that I’m aware of.  Can you call them break-ups if you’re not sure of the terms to begin with?  Since the conclave, you’ll note that Aldo been away for the odd weekend—”

“That’s an awful lot of caginess just to say he goes to Milan to see Sabbadin.  As long as they’re enjoying themselves,” Vincent laughs, pinching Thomas’s side.  “I could’ve worked that out given another half an hour to turn this over in my head while I practiced roundabout British politeness to see how many more adorable seminary stories I could get out of you.  But thank you for finally deciding to stoop to my level.”

“As if you didn’t know it was my level, too, after happily serving as my moral support the morning Agnes and I took down Joe,” Thomas scoffs.  He threatens to tickle Vincent, but thinks better of it.  “All of us comprising your inner circle are terrible.  Hadn’t you noticed?”

Vincent just nods.  “I doubt I would enjoy working with all of you so much if you weren’t.”

“Present,” Thomas says, rubbing Vincent’s back.  “Would you have fallen for me if I wasn’t?” 

“Aside from your agreement that it was a shame we couldn’t swap music, I thought you were incredibly serious…until I saw how you and Agnes went about that stunt the morning after we slept together.  It not only spoke to your character and exposed the truth about Joe, but it also had the makings of a formidable prank.  It confirmed that you were the right choice at every level—both for Pope and as my partner.”

“I can say the same of you, as far as your being the right choice for me at every level, although I was rather slow to heed the signs that the Lord was giving me at every turn over those few days,” Thomas replies.  “May we all accept in due time that even He has a sense of mischief.”

“Just like our dearly departed Holy Father?”

“Even like him, to whom we also owe thanks.”

“Do you think he’s still having a laugh over this?”

“If not on his own, surely with Sister Francesca.”

“It’s a shame that she passed years before my arrival.  I wish I could’ve met her.  She must’ve had the best sense of humor out of all of you,” Vincent says in admiration.  “Out of everyone at the conclave and at Mater Ecclesiæ as well, to have kept up with a woman like Agnes.”

“To have loved a woman like Agnes, too,” Thomas agrees, tipping his head back against the pillows, studying the olive-wood crucifix on the wall above the bed.  “Had they been men, they easily could have maneuvered their way into the Curia and ruled the Vatican.”

“Agnes rules the Vatican now, through various ways and means,” Vincent says.  “She’s effectively part of the Curia.  And if it wasn’t true before the conclave, then we’ve seen to it since.  It’s necessary for our survival, and she’s unmatched at what she does.”

Thomas tries to untangle the chains of their medals without the benefit of being able to see what he’s doing, grateful he’d chosen a more substantial style of links despite the considerable cost.  “Anything else you’ve been wondering, as far as the Curia’s lurid social milieu?”

“Yes,” Vincent replies, his mischievous tone making Thomas regret asking.  “What’s going on with Goffredo regarding how he feels about you and Aldo, if you know?  If you don’t, then I’ll find your guesses amusing.  He focuses on the two of you at the expense of everyone else.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find my conjectures hilarious,” Thomas sighs fondly against the top of Vincent’s head, finally pinching him back.  “Aldo thinks Goffredo is genuinely fond of me, which I suppose makes sense in light of how he’s always behaved toward me…including the treatment you saw over Christmas that extended to both of us.  As for how Goffredo behaves toward Aldo, I think he’d choke if he were to realize he’s…a touch obsessed.  I’ve never had the nerve to insinuate to Aldo’s face as to what kind of obsession, because I value my life.”

Vincent nods, suddenly quiet.  “I have compassion for those who hate in themselves the things they fear or do not understand.  I’ve lived it.”  Vincent seeks Thomas’s hand, clasping it where it’s curled around their medals.  “Is that how your habit of self-punishment began?”

Thomas hugs Vincent tightly.  “Perhaps in part?  Over time, those practices became as much of a habit as prayer, although I’m realizing my prayer suffered as a result.  You’re astute to note that denying myself sustenance and risking burns did nothing to make me feel closer to God.”

“Do you feel closer to God now than you did before, at least?” Vincent asks.  “Serving here with you, loving you,” he says, “has made me feel as close to Him as my service in the darkest of places.  Without you, I don’t know if I would’ve been able to say that about serving here.”

“Serving you, loving you?” Thomas replies.  “There’s no distinction.  In feeling close to you, yes, I’ve felt closer to God—but if I never felt His presence again?  Dear Vincent, I don’t…don’t know if I would even care.  I’ll accept whatever penance you assign for my blasphemy.”

Vincent just kisses Thomas.  “I’m the Pope,” he mumbles, “so—I feel that some blurring of the lines may be forgivable, especially—”  Vincent shifts fully on top of Thomas, ducking to worry the gold chain around Vincent’s neck between his teeth before sucking a bruise above Thomas’s collarbone.  “Especially given the duress of food deprivation.  That can lead to confusion, don’t you think?”  He lifts his head, kisses Thomas again, and rolls his hips to see if any of his ministrations have had a measurable effect.  “Pobrecito.  Did I wear you out?”

Thomas feels faint.  He’s definitely flushed all over, but he’s nowhere close to hard even after the work Vincent’s put in, and he hates himself for it.  Vincent must see that in his eyes, because before he knows it he’s being tenderly shushed and scolded in Spanish that he doesn’t bother to translate for himself, because it’s bliss to lie there and let Vincent stroke him like nothing’s wrong.  And, really, he’s learning that nothing is.

“Do you want me to get a towel again?” Vincent whispers in Thomas’s ear, still playing with his cock.  “Make you feel good the other way?”

“No,” Thomas replies, stroking Vincent’s wrist, stilling his hand between his legs.  “I’ll make too much noise, and it’s…”  He squints at the clock.  “It’s almost three in the morning.  Agnes will have a fit if we’re not cheerful company when she meets us six hours from now.”

Vincent stops touching Thomas and settles over him, cuddling close the same way they’d been before.  He’s hard against Thomas’s belly, and a little restless for it.  Vincent’s moan into the curve of Thomas’s neck is lovely when Thomas clutches him closer, digging his fingertips gently into the notches of his spine.  “Tease,” Vincent pants softly, already leaking against Thomas’s belly.  “Thomas, there’s not…the sheets…”

Thomas rolls Vincent onto his back.  “There won’t be any mess.”  He kisses Vincent’s neck, nipping at Vincent’s chain; he kisses Vincent’s chest, and then lower.  “I’ve been neglectful,” Thomas whispers against the softness of Vincent’s belly, framing his hip bones with his palms.  “Here’s my penance,” he says to the miracle always just out of reach, and kisses Vincent’s flesh as he might’ve kissed the marble shrine.  “Ianua cæli, ora pro nobis.  Stella matutina, ora pro nobis.  Salus infirmorum, ora pro nobis.  Refugium peccatorum, ora pro nobis.  Solacium migrantium, ora pro nobis.  Consolatrix afflictorum, ora pro nobis. Auxilium Christianorum, ora pro nobis. Regina Angelorum, ora pro nobis.”

“Amen,” Vincent gasps as Thomas presses the next kiss to the underside of his cock.  “What devotional is that, I don’t recognize—ah, sí, así—”

“Shhh,” Thomas soothes, following the tight suction to the head of Vincent’s cock with a leisurely brush of his tongue.  “It’s from the Litaniæ Lauretanæ.  It was probably composed in twelfth-century Paris, but Sixtus V adopted it for use at the shrine here in Loreto.”

“You memorized that for this trip.  Oh, that’s—that’s so absurd.  I love you.”

“I substituted part of it for the Salve Regina when we prayed in the shrine.”

“You’re—fuck.  Nothing if not consistent.”

“Mmm.  Backhanded compliments in bed.”

When Thomas’s phone buzzes, both of them ignore it this time.  The ride back to Rome won’t be fun, but chances are already high that they won’t be awake for Agnes to snipe at them—which will leave Anton and Lorenz entirely at her lack of mercy.  Pulling an all-nighter it is.

Chapter Text

Not only is Agnes silent on the ride back to Rome, but she’s sullenly texting.  Thomas figures that it must be Aldo or Ray, because she snaps a photo of Vincent asleep against Thomas’s shoulder.  Thomas doesn’t like her dour glare, so he kisses Vincent’s forehead.

As they’re pulling up in front of Casa Santa Marta after several hours on the road, Agnes catches Thomas’s attention.  “Take the Holy Father upstairs,” she says, “and let him get the sleep you kept him from last night.  Aldo needs to see him in my office at three.”

“Agnes,” Thomas protests while Vincent yawns and blinks at her in confusion, “it’s Saturday.”

“Oh?” Agnes mocks, and then gives Vincent a stern look.  “No rest for the wicked, Holiness.”

“I don’t like this,” Thomas says as soon as they’re in the elevator.  “She’s done something.”

“When has she not?” Vincent agrees.  “She does try to keep us on the straight and narrow.”

Once they’re in the bedroom, Vincent barely gets his Converse unlaced before falling onto the mattress with a groan.  He mumbles indistinctly in Spanish as Thomas sighs, pulls the shoes off his feet, and then sits down on the bed to remove his own.

“Come, my dear Vincent,” Thomas coaxes, stretching out next to Vincent’s prone form, prodding Vincent’s hip until he’s righted the direction in which he’s lying and scooted over against Thomas’s chest.  “That’s better.  Absolutely shattered, aren’t you?”

Vincent doesn’t respond.  He’s already half asleep, winding his fingers in Thomas’s shirt.

“Ah, right,” Thomas murmurs, carding his fingers through Vincent’s hair.  “Poor darling.”

Vincent mumbles again, barely comprehensible.  “Necesitamos dormir, o Agnes nos matará.”

Thomas would laugh at the sentiment—they need to sleep, or Agnes will kill them—but he’s exhausted.  When voices in the living room eventually wake him, Vincent has already left for his meeting.  One of those voices makes Thomas bolt out of bed.

“Tommaso,” Goffredo greets, not bothering to rise as he takes a hit on his vape.  He dismisses Anton and Lorenz with a wave, and then gestures to one of the armchairs across from him.  “I got on the train as soon as word arrived.  Che scomodità!”

“As soon as word arrived…”  Thomas stares at him in blank unease.  “What happened?”

Goffredo takes his phone out of his pocket.  “An eventful morning,” he says, turning it toward Thomas, “unless these are slander?”

Thomas wants to start shouting when he’s met with Agnes’s photographs from the van, but he refrains.  “Where did you get them?”

“Da chi pensi?  Mah!” Goffredo scoffs, putting the phone away.  “Agnes is so worried that she betrays signore e signora del maniero.”

“You could’ve waited until Vincent was back,” Thomas replies, resigned and furious.  “Surely she wanted you to scold both of us.”

“I did not think love would make you so stupid,” Goffredo retorts.  “Play the foolish husband, and Agnes will make you my business.”

“For the love of…”  Thomas grits his teeth.  “I suppose Vincent’s getting more respectful handling downstairs.  I’m sincerely grateful.”

“I would not cross that sly minx even with you in the room,” Goffredo says gravely.  “Especially not then.  How wisely he hides his teeth before a crowd—but not when he’s guarding you, no.  I would have to take leave of my senses before baring my throat to a man’s wife.”

Thomas searches Goffredo’s eyes for a sign that he knows Vincent’s secret—but finds machismo and sarcasm instead.  “How kind,” Thomas snarks.

“With those insults to your delicate pride out of the way, would you please listen?”

“Forced and bigoted although the metaphor is, Goffredo?  I’ll give you a minute.”

Goffredo puffs on the vape.  “Ash Wednesday, Lent, and Easter are soon.  So many Masses.  May is busy, too, and then?  We are going on tour.”

“You haven’t told me anything I don’t already know,” Thomas replies.  “Thirty seconds left.”

“Be more decorous in public,” Goffredo says, “or Agnes will invite me to stay until the trip.”

Agnes’s timing is too perfect not to be pre-arranged with the guards.  She opens the door, leans in, and says, “Are we finished here, Eminences?”

Thomas glowers at Agnes as Goffredo, vaping all the while, makes his way over to her.  “What did you promise him in exchange for the day trip?”

Agnes ignores Thomas’s question and wrangles the vape out of Goffredo’s hand as soon as he’s in range.  “You won’t be taking that near them.”

“I get to name a few turtles,” Goffredo tells Thomas, shrugging.

Thomas slouches in the chair, defeated.  When the door opens again, he doesn’t bother to open his eyes until Vincent’s weight settles in his lap.

“I almost regret giving her a promotion,” Vincent says, impressed.

Thomas grins up at him wearily.  “You didn’t create this monster.”

Chapter Text

On the evening of March fifth, Vincent leads the Curia’s habitual Ash Wednesday penitential procession from the Chiesa di Sant’Anselmo to the Basilica di Santa Sabina.  The somber five-minute walk takes them from the Via di Porta Lavernale to their straight shot down the Via di Santa Sabina.  Fading light from the spectator-lined streets follows them inside the white marble glory of the basilica.

Tonight, as Vincent delivers it beneath the crystalline windows set in the apse, it shimmers.  These ashes hold memory and hope: what we have been, what we may become.  We are dust even as Christ became; even as Christ rose, we rise.  Wear these ashes on the somber road ahead, a Lenten reminder—of those we may aid through our sacrifice.  Learn through fasting that we hunger to serve one another.

Predictably, Aldo calls it poetic at the close of the evening.  Ray is profoundly moved and weepy, whereas Agnes gives Vincent a proud smile as she helps Thomas divest him of his gold-embroidered ceremonial whites left dusty from their journey through the streets.

They ride from central Rome back to the Vatican, escorted by Anton and Lorenz.  Thomas, aware that he and Vincent have scarcely touched save for the removal of Vincent’s garb after Mass, itches as they peel away from the others on their return to Casa Santa Marta.

Anton and Lorenz flank them in the elevator, so there’s no sense in exchanging anything except for sidelong glances.  The doors slide open, they walk a to their suite, they bid the guards a good night—and then, as soon as they’re locked within, the tension snaps.

Thomas catches Vincent against his chest, swept up in trembling.  “You were radiant,” he whispers in Vincent’s ear.  “Not a word out of place.”

“Must’ve been the space,” Vincent mumbles against Thomas’s collar, desperately grasping Thomas’s shoulders.  “Those clear windows overhead.”

“No, Holiness,” Thomas continues, tilting Vincent’s chin up, peering imploringly into his eyes.  “You were more beautiful than the fall of evening.”

“Thomas,” Vincent sighs, but he’s smiling through his sudden fit of blushing.  “It’ll go to my head.  You’ll have a Pope who does nothing but sin.”

“I was hoping you’d want to tonight,” Thomas replies, grinning back.  “Heaven knows we’ve had no time but your mandated afternoon breaks.”

“Ay, dulce hablador,” Vincent scolds, using his grip on Thomas’s shoulders to spin him and push him toward the bedroom.  “How can I resist?”

They’ve turned the tables plenty of times since their first attempt at this, but Thomas isn’t going to argue if Vincent feels he deserves to be fucked about how exquisitely he’d done.  He takes his time about undressing both of them, kisses Vincent everywhere he can reach, and then spends too much time sucking a bruise into Vincent’s neck as he works him open.  Thomas stops what he’s doing when Vincent clenches around his fingers and muffles breathy, helpless sobs against Thomas’s shoulder.  Shhh, shhh, my darling, he whispers.  Come if that’s what you need.

Vincent curses Thomas for not being inside him already, so that’s fixed in a hurry.  Thomas fucks him hard and fast enough to make the headboard hit the wall for several minutes straight.  Who needs longer when that’s enough to leave them gasping and shaking in each other’s arms?

“Almost makes me wish I hadn’t quit smoking,” Vincent pants in the aftermath, loosening the sweat-slick trap of his thighs from Thomas’s hips.

Thomas lifts his head from the pillow, strands of Vincent’s hair sticking to his cheek, blinking love-drunk down at Vincent.  “You...wish what?”

Vincent runs his thumb adoringly along Thomas’s lower lip.  “Don’t tell me you and Aldo never smoked years ago on nights you snuck to the pub.”

Thomas heaves a fond sigh, catching Vincent’s thumb briefly between his teeth before dipping down to kiss him soft and slow.  “I can’t, of course.”

Vincent kisses Thomas again, stifling delighted laughter against his lips.  “It’s a pity we’d prompt a fire drill if we shared a cigarette in here.”

“Agnes would kill us in earnest,” Thomas says with severity.  “She’d chop us up and feed us to the turtles.  Worse, she’d ask Goffredo to help.”

“I can think of less worthy fates.  At least we’d be useful.”

“This is the worst post-coital conversation we’ve ever had.”

“Worse than gossipping about Aldo’s love life in Loreto?”

“At least I was filling you in on vital Curia social data.”

“Whatever it takes to sleep at night,” Vincent murmurs, framing Thomas’s face with both hands.  “Juan, mi amado.  What would I do without you?”

Hearing the endearment in Spanish makes Thomas’s chest feel tight.  “Inocente, mi amada.  You would’ve been a brilliant Pope just the same.”

Vincent traces from the corner of Thomas’s mouth to his cheek, fanning his fingers.  “Amada.  There’s no one else in the world I would let…”

“Let call you that, like the poem?” Thomas whispers, reverently nuzzling Vincent’s cheek.  He lifts up enough to splay a hand over Vincent’s belly.

“Te quiero tanto,” Vincent sighs, pulling Thomas back down against himself.

“I love you, too,” Thomas replies.  “So very much.  You were brilliant tonight.”

As Lent progresses, Aldo has a few choice comments for Thomas one night at dinner about what he must be doing behind closed doors to keep Vincent motivated—that surely there’s nothing austere, penitential, or self-denying about those tactics.

Vincent overhears as he’s returning with not just his own plate, but also a bowl with several extra items in it for Thomas.  “Would you rather I…cómo se dice, phoned it in?” he asks as he takes a seat across from Thomas.  “How about on Easter?”

Aldo rolls his eyes, reaching for his coffee cup.  “No, that’s all right,” he says with mock annoyance.  “I guess the indulgences can continue.”

“How are the travel arrangements coming along for June?” Vincent asks.  “I still haven’t seen a full itinerary.  I think Agnes is avoiding the issue.”

Thomas feels the air around them freeze; it’s a distinct talent that Aldo has had for as long as Thomas has known him.  “Have there been snags?”

“Not exactly,” Aldo says carefully, and then sips his coffee.  “We did finalize it a couple of days ago, but Ray hasn’t finished preparing the dossier.”

“You sound hesitant,” Vincent replies with patience.  It’s the tone he uses when he wants to set someone at ease.  “Was it necessary to cut a stop?”

“Nothing so drastic,” Aldo sighs, annoyed with himself.  “The stops aren’t in the order you wanted them to be in, that’s all.  Scheduling was rough.”

“That’s not the end of the world,” Vincent responds reasonably.  “At least let me know what we’re looking at so that I can consider the big picture.”

“We’re starting in Buenos Aires,” Aldo says, swilling his coffee.  “Rio de Janeiro after that.  Clergy in both cities were the most amenable to clearing personal dockets and carving out space for visits to major landmarks, ecclesiastical and otherwise.  After that, we head to Veracruz.  We have to haul the whole way to Kahnawake next, weird as that sounds, and then backtrack to Santa Fé.  So much for New Mexico being laid back.  They couldn’t get us in the doors at the Basilica of St. Francis or Loretto Chapel until our last planned week on the road.”

“But they did manage to fit us in at both?” Thomas asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, they did,” Aldo replies, “because Agnes is a fucking shark.”

“Where are Agnes and Ray?” Vincent asks.  “I need to thank them.”

“In Agnes’s office, triple-checking this,” Aldo says.  “Where else?”

As soon as Vincent has finished eating, he restrains himself from hand-feeding Thomas what remains on his plate.  Instead, he gives Thomas a stern look until he finishes the food on his own, and then he drags Thomas with him to Agnes’s office.  Ray is gone by the time they get there, likely in line to get whatever’s left to choose from food-wise and belatedly join Aldo, but Agnes is tapping away.

“The itinerary,” Vincent says breathlessly, twining his fingers with Thomas’s as soon as the office door swings shut behind them.  “Thank you.”

Agnes stops typing and swivels her chair.  “What’s this?” she asks, gesturing at their joined hands.  “Remember the terms of our agreement?”

Thomas is sick of avoiding contact even in semi-public spaces.  He releases Vincent’s hand, sliding his arm around Vincent’s waist.  “For fuck’s—”

“You saved the best stop for last,” Vincent continues, giving her that disarming smile.  “Since we can’t bring Fran, you’ll have to be my best man.”

“For fuck’s sake yourself!” Agnes gasps, abruptly in tears as she covers her mouth.  She tries to recover, pulling off her veil and wimple.  “Fine!”

Thomas snags the box of tissues off the document tray, offering them to Agnes.  “So, our weepy visit to the Loreto shrine was a useful rehearsal?”

“Another word, and I’ll send Goffredo in as maid of honor,” Agnes grouses, blowing her nose.

Chapter Text

When mid-May rolls around, it falls on Thomas to break the news to Vincent that Ray won’t be accompanying them.  Not only is one of the Pope’s acting Personal Secretaries required to stay behind and hold the fabric of the Vatican’s inner circle together, but Ray also hates flying.  Vincent, who’s been increasingly moody in private as their departure date of the thirty-first approaches, outwardly takes the news with grace—but Thomas can see the disappointment behind his eyes.  He reassures Vincent that he’s not alone in feeling bereft in advance, but needs must.

In Vincent’s scheduled traveling retinue, that leaves Thomas, Aldo, Goffredo, Agnes, a staff photographer from the Holy See Press Office, and half a dozen non-Church-affiliated journalists whose names Agnes will scrupulously draw from a metaphorical hat.  Thomas suspects she’ll feed their names into a digital randomizer, as fond as she is of apps.  He’d traveled with the late Holy Father on only one of his twenty-odd pastoral visits abroad, and the number of journalists in tow had been close to ten—with easily six or seven languages represented among them.

Even though Agnes has deemed Thomas and Vincent to be on their best behavior, Goffredo somehow gets clearance to inflict himself on Casa Santa Marta a week ahead of their departure.  Rather than make himself useful in any of the packing or press-related proceedings, the Patriarch of Venice passes most of his time overseeing the installation of a bench and safety barriers around the turtles’ fountain so that it’s more difficult for them to escape.  Thomas shudders to think where he’s dug up the funding.  As long as Vincent is happy, he’s not going to ask.

Still, it’s a tricky subject to avoid.  Goffredo spends his evenings between Thomas and Vincent at dinner, announcing the names he’s chosen for the (suspected) males in the population.  Sure, Thomas had enjoyed The Name of the Rose, but does he need to be reminded that there are souls who never venture further into Eco’s novels?  Not really.  He wonders how long it will take the vein in Agnes’s temple to burst as Goffredo swipes through photos, introducing Adso of Melk, William of Baskerville, Severinus of Sankt Wendel, Malachi of Hildesheim, and Bernard Gui.

“The fucking inquisitor, really?” Agnes says as soon as Goffredo has gotten up to refill his coffee.  “Bernard?  The name itself is insult to injury.”

“This might be a stretch, but do you remember those episodes of Black Books I showed you?” Thomas asks, trying to mitigate the damage.

“You saw him in the photo,” Vincent points out, putting on a cajoling tone.  “That one does have a grumpy face.  Pretend it’s Bernard Black.”

Aldo and Ray join them at the table a few minutes into arguing about whether or not Goffredo will expect them to use full names for the turtles.  When Ray lights up at the sound of the rap sheet—oh, that’s right, he’s a huge fan of Eco’s work—Aldo scoffs, calling him a traitor.

Goffredo returns with his coffee.  “Hai ottimi gusti, Monsignore,” he cuts in, pleased.

“Thank you,” Ray says primly, preening in his seat.  “Glad someone finally noticed.”

“This is why you not coming on the trip is a good thing,” Aldo grouses.  “Can’t take it.”

“Cannot take a friend who disagrees?” Goffredo taunts.  “How do you survive in Milan?”

Thomas freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth.  In their secluded corner of the dining hall, you could hear a pin drop.  Vincent seems to be appraising the situation like he might if Goffredo had dropped a live grenade on the table.  Agnes rolls her eyes, gets up, and walks away.

“Diplomacy,” Aldo says before Vincent can articulate whatever’s on the tip of his tongue.

Goffredo bursts out laughing so hard he almost spills his coffee.  “Lo chiamiamo così ora?”

Thomas finally takes the bite of his dessert, but he barely tastes it.  He glances sidelong at Vincent, eager to escape their present company before they become targets, too.  The last thing they need are lewd potshots at their relationship, even veiled ones, before they travel.

“We’re not calling it anything,” Vincent tells Goffredo curtly, getting to his feet with his own coffee in hand.  “Sabbadin is more polite in a debate than anyone at this table.”  He waits patiently for Thomas to take a few more bites of fruit salad, and then beckons to him.  “We fly out at ten thirty tomorrow night.  There is much work to be done between now and then.  Please don’t waste time on such petty pursuits as…whatever this is.”

“Your Holiness,” Aldo sighs in acquiescence.  “Have a good evening.”

Goffredo takes a seat across from Aldo.  “Sì, sì, fratelli.  Buonanotte.”

Thomas waits until they’re in the elevator to succumb to defeatism.  “We never should’ve promised him a seat on the plane.  This leads to ruin.”

“No, it’s still a precaution,” Vincent disagrees, reassuringly squeezing Thomas’s hand.  “This shows why we need Goffredo around to handle Joe.”

Thomas chews his lip.  “He’s not afraid to weaponize secrets in public.  Gives his target enough rope to either hang themself or back down.”

“It will be all right, amado,” Vincent whispers, turning Thomas to face him with his free hand.  “And if Joe has one up on us, then…we face it.”

“If he knows your secret, our secret, both,” Thomas replies, “then it’s the quickest way to ensure that your Papacy is the shortest in living memory.”

“Not as short as John Paul I, though.”

“Ah, true, thirty-three days was dire.”

Boarding their chartered ITA jet at Leonardo da Vinci International the next evening goes smoothly.  Thomas doesn’t recognize any of the six journalists that Aldo walks up from coach, one at a time, to introduce to Vincent—hailing from Berlin, London, New York, Madrid, Paris, and Toronto.  Once they’re in the air, Agnes introduces the familiar-looking young woman, also wearing a Holy See press badge, who’s seated next to her in the first class row behind Thomas and Vincent.  Thomas realizes where he’s seen her a second before Agnes says her name.

“This is Signora Zangari,” Agnes says as the young woman peers through the gap between seats and waves.  “She’s been managing some of our social media part-time, and when I saw some of her digital photography…”  She waves a hand.  “You want her behind the camera, not me.”

“Elysia,” Thomas says, pleasantly surprised.  “You’re giving up on retail so soon?” he asks.

“If something full-time opens up in the Press Office, maybe?” Elysia replies.  “Eminence.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Signora,” Vincent says, and then blinks at Thomas.  “You know her?”

“Signora Zangari assisted me with the purchase—” Thomas stops short as Agnes’s eyes progressively widen, realizing the quandary he’s very nearly landed them in “—of those lovely Madonna di Loreto medals for my relatives.  The ones I had engraved with medieval poetry, remember?”

Vincent doesn’t blink.  “How could I forget?  Such a thoughtful gift for loved ones celebrating their marriage.  You have fine taste,” he tells Elysia.

“I mean, that was all Eminence Lawrence,” Elysia says deferentially, waving her hands effusively in front of her face, “but…thanks, Your Holiness.”

Of all the interns Agnes could choose, Thomas thinks as they settle back into their seats, pressing his fingertips over the gold concealed by his vestments.  He’s never been more grateful that his and Vincent’s high collars conceal the chains on which they wear the matching medals.

Vincent notices the subtle movement of Thomas’s hand.  He catches it briefly in his grasp, presses it over Thomas’s heart, and then lets go.  “Si esto es una prueba, entonces que así sea,” he whispers with a patience far greater than Thomas deserves.  If this is a test, then so be it.

Chapter Text

1.

Cuando la selva oscura cae ante mí
Y los caminos son de hierba
Y los fieles del orgullo dicen, no es así
Cultivo tus penas sobre piedra

No Pope has set foot in Argentina since the visit made by John Paul II in 1982.  Had Agnes succeeded in scheduling Buenos Aires as their second stop instead of their first, there might’ve been a chance of planning their arrival for June twelfth, making it forty-three years to the day.

They land at Ezeiza around seven in the morning on June first, after fifteen hours in the air.  Thomas envies Vincent’s ability to sleep anywhere; he’s one of few people in the entourage who looks ready to face a full itinerary.  Even with four days in the city, there’s no time to waste.

Thomas can barely think as the chime indicates they can unfasten their seatbelts.  Vincent catching hold of his right arm and Agnes catching hold of his left from where she’s scooted into the aisle from her seat behind him are the only supports that keep him from keeling over when he rises.  So much for Vincent cajoling him eat the in-flight meal; he’s too dizzy to protest as they shuffle him into the adjacent empty first class row and Agnes takes point on helping one of the flight attendants haul out the garment bags containing Vincent’s and the three cardinals’ robes.

“I need to dress His Holiness,” Thomas protests even as Vincent tries to push past Agnes to reach him.  Meanwhile, Aldo and Goffredo are shouting at each other as they rush up from coach with the journalists on their heels.  Anton and Lorenz, seated two rows back from Agnes and Elysia in the row between first and coach, block the journalists’ path after letting an alarmed Aldo and disgruntled Goffredo slip through.

“Thomas,” Vincent manages, reaching over Agnes’s shoulder to catch his hand.  “I’ll send Aldo out and have him cancel today, just—”

“No,” Thomas insists, squeezing his hand reassuringly before releasing it.  “I stood up too quickly, that’s all.  We’re not postponing.”

“You,” Agnes says to Elysia, even as she brusquely removes the white collar from Vincent’s plain black button-down shirt and silences the other two cardinals into assisting her with a glare.  “Make the crew bring him some water and something to eat, and then—see that bag?  It’s Eminence Lawrence’s choir dress.  Help him.  The second we get off this plane, we’re facing President Milei and his entourage.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Venerable Sister,” Elysia says, pale but alert.  “Everyone needs to be photo-ready.”

“—too many cooks in the kitchen!” Goffredo is grousing as he passes Thomas the water.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up,” Aldo snaps, busy with Vincent’s mitre, “so help me—”

“I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you,” Vincent interjects.  “Please.”

Thomas has never heard the space around Vincent fall silent so swiftly.  Even Agnes reins in her breathing so that the only sounds are the rustle of fabric and the crinkle of plastic as Elysia gets a packet of shortbread open and sheepishly offers it to him.  Thomas eats without complaint.

“Are they always like this?” Elysia asks as she helps Thomas with his regalia several minutes later, the background noise returning to normal.

“They’re usually much worse,” Thomas tells her wryly.  “I’m concerned.  I wonder if we ought to’ve had them on the oxygen masks en route.”

Elysia bursts into startled laughter, adjusting Thomas’s collar.  She stops short as she does the hook, her index finger slipping just low enough to catch on the Venetian chain.  She pulls it up, the gesture nearly in slow motion, dropping it again when she realizes what she’s seen.  Elysia fastens the hook and takes a step back from Thomas, her eyes downcast as she processes, and then glances up as she hands him his zucchetto.

“The other one is…oh,” Elysia says quietly, casting her glance in Vincent’s direction.  “I think…che cavolo, I already knew that.”  She squeezes her eyes shut, striking the floor hard with one heel as she shrinks in on herself, self-chastisement so familiar Thomas almost flinches, too.  “I’m sorry,” Elysia continues in a rush, “it’s not my place to say something, it’s not, forget that I even felt the need to comment.  Your Eminence, I’m—”

“My child,” Thomas implores, hastily placing the zucchetto on his head, taking her by the shoulders, “you have nothing to apologize for.  Nothing.”

Elysia looks just as likely to cry from jet-lag as from fear she’s made a misstep.  “My cousin, Paola?  You know she has a secret…well, secrets, so…”

Thomas makes the sign of the cross over Elysia, shushing her gently.  “I make no more judgment of her than you make of…”  He glances at Vincent, aching to close even the few feet between them.  Thomas can’t bear confessing this to another soul without Vincent at his side.

Vincent, fully dressed now and speaking in a low, curt tone with Aldo and Goffredo, catches Thomas’s eye.  He ends the instructions he’s giving to the cardinals and makes his way up the aisle to Thomas as Elysia steps back into the parallel row to make room for him.  With a gesture, he gets Anton to draw the curtain between first class and coach, cutting off the journalists’ view; the flight crew have drawn the one between the galley area and first to give them privacy for their preparations.  Only Agnes, Elysia, the cardinals, and the guards are with him.

“Thomas,” Vincent says, and doesn’t even hesitate to take him in his arms.  “Are you all right?  If you’re not well enough, you have my word…”

Thomas leans into him, holding him just as tightly.  “Signora Zangari,” he whispers in Vincent’s ear.  “She…wishes us well,” he says, pressing his fingertips against the front of Vincent’s vestments until he feels the shape of Vincent’s medal beneath.  Taps it for emphasis.

Vincent kisses Thomas’s cheek, chaste and formal, and then turns to Elysia.  “Bless you, my child,” he says with a warm smile.  “We’ll need all of the luck we can get if the crowds are as large as the media reports have been predicting.  Make sure you get my good side.”

Only later that day—after the diplomatic envoy press op on the tarmac and the motorcade past a crowd of thousands lining the entire route to the Metropolitan Cathedral on Plaza de Mayo, where Vincent gives his closed address to national and local clergy followed by a public blessing on the assembled—do they get the chance to talk about Elysia.  For the duration of their stay in Buenos Aires, their entourage is staying at the Apostolic Nunciature in the Fernández Anchorena Palace.  No one has questioned assigning the Pope and the Dean to a suite with two bedrooms.

After a tiresome formal lunch, Thomas and Vincent undress and fall dead asleep in the larger of the two beds for several hours.  There’s a dinner at Quinta de Olivos that evening with President Milei and a slew of other diplomats that Aldo has been stressing about for months, but on waking all Vincent wants to do is lavish attention on Thomas while they’re soaking in the bath, which goes very well for both of them in spite of how exhausted they are from the long flight.  Thomas is starting to realize exactly how much he enjoys doing this in places other than home.

“Elysia knows?” Vincent asks when he can breathe again, circling one wet fingertip over the medal on Thomas’s chest.

Thomas catches strands of Vincent’s hair between his fingertips as they drift in the water.  “She knows what we are.”

Vincent doesn’t seem troubled to hear it, but he is thoughtful as he shifts in the curve of Thomas’s arm, almost displacing some water over the side of the tub.  “Agnes did a background check.  Elysia has a cousin in Venice who has done some IT work for Goffredo.  Paola Zangari is transgender, which I’m certain Goffredo does not realize, and most of her family have shunned her for it.  Elysia is still in contact with her.  Agnes and I had particularly strong feelings about giving Elysia this work opportunity in the event that she’s also helping to support Paola.”

“Elysia mentioned her cousin when I picked up the medals,” Thomas says.  “She works part time at Mondo Cattolico.  It’s a small world we inhabit.”

Vincent nods in agreement, kissing Thomas’s collarbone.  “Even if God is testing our faith, but I find His ways more miraculous than mysterious.”

2.

No creí porque no pude ver
Y veniste a mí sin huellas
Y el alba perdida parecía
Y diste tu amor con las estrellas

Vincent’s predecessor had visited Rio de Janeiro as recently as 2013, and John Paul II had likewise traveled there in 1980 and again in 1997.  In his official capacity as Pope Innocent XIV, he’d therefore advised Agnes and Aldo that scheduling a public Mass shouldn’t necessarily be of top importance. After whatever expected meetings and meals with diplomats and ecclesiastical leaders have been scheduled, prioritize visits to as many of the favelas as can reasonably be accommodated in four days, Vincent had instructed them in the memo.

Thomas isn’t sure how favorable the optics will be given the wealth disparity between where the Papal entourage is staying (Laranjeiras Palace) and the favelas that they will be visiting (Babilônia, Maré, and Varginha).  After formal dinner at the governor’s palace, during which Vincent is quiet in comparison to the energy he’d shown for their diplomatic obligations in Buenos Aires, they’re set to celebrate Mass, limited to clergy and lay leaders who have traveled from around Brazil, at Santuário de Santa Rita—the oldest church in the city, dating to 1721.

The white-and-gilt Baroque interior is one of the most ornate spaces that Thomas has ever seen, adorned with arches and twisted pillars and vine-worked brass light fixtures.  High windows overlook saints’ nooks set into the walls, each home to a brightly painted statue.  Vincent looks more at home here than in Saint Peter’s, although not less so than he’d looked in Loreto.  The service shines in a way that the service in Buenos Aires’s sprawling cathedral had not, reminding Thomas of Ash Wednesday in Santa Sabina.  Vincent is at his best in intimate venues.

The disadvantage this time, they discover that night, is that although they’re in the largest, best-appointed suite that the governor’s palace has to offer—an entire floor with four bedrooms branching off the opulent rooms for common use—they’re sharing with Aldo and Goffredo.

“Well,” Aldo says, sweeping his zucchetto off his head, making a beeline for one of the bedrooms with his rollerboard, “you guys figure it out.”

Goffredo stares resentfully at Thomas for all of three seconds before Vincent does something with his facial expression, Thomas doesn’t know what, to draw Goffredo’s attention.  “If you do not take the one that is farthest that way,” he says, “then I will go down one floor and ask Agnes if she would like to trade rooms.  She is, how do you say it, used to this nonsense?  I can only assume there was…much nonsense in Loreto.”

“We’ll take separate rooms if you find that less threatening,” Vincent says mildly, but there’s an edge of something sharper underlying his tone.  “Less…contagious, perhaps?” he ventures, and the cut of his eyes toward Aldo’s room is so quick that Thomas might easily have missed it.

“Mah,” Goffredo scoffs, striding grumpily toward the room at the other end of the hall from Aldo’s.  “Fate quello che volete!  Non sono tuo padre!”

“Did he really just—”  Vincent stares after Goffredo, waiting until the bedroom door closes “—tell us to do whatever we want, he’s not our father?”

Thomas gives an astonished nod.  “Yes, that is…exactly what he just said,” he replies wearily, shrugging at Vincent.  “Which room on the parallel hall over there, then?  They’re about equidistant from Goffredo’s to be honest.  Does he mean the one that’s more diagonal from his or the one more parallel with Aldo’s?  I’m still jet-lagged from Buenos Aires, so asking me to perform feats of spatial reasoning isn’t wise.”

Vincent laughs softly, taking Thomas’s hand.  They cross the spacious combined living-and-dining area to the opposite hall, where they hesitate for a moment before turning right.  Each room is appointed with a bed that’s wide enough to hold both of them, who knows whether the standardizations of queen and king apply at this level of luxury, and Vincent doesn’t waste any time, making Thomas sit down on the edge of the mattress.  He kneels, removes Thomas’s shoes, and then leans forward to press his mouth against Thomas’s belly through his shirt.

“You can’t leave well enough alone,” Thomas whispers, running his fingers through Vincent’s hair as desire coils low in his gut.  “Can you?”

Vincent mouths the spot again, another wet, heated kiss through starched cotton.  “Do you remember that morning Goffredo was texting you?”

Thomas closes his eyes tightly, biting back a gasp as Vincent slides one hand between his legs.  “Vincent, you are absolutely impossible—”

“Impossible to what?” Vincent asks, gazing up at Thomas through half-lowered lashes as he just rests his palm patiently over Thomas’s cock.

“Impossible to refuse,” Thomas says, cupping Vincent’s cheek, “and impossible to live with when you’ve gotten it into your head to spite him.”

Vincent grins, turning his head enough to kiss the heel of Thomas’s hand.  He works Thomas’s zipper down partway with one fingertip.

“Didn’t I just say that you’re…”

“Humor me and…be clearer.”

Thomas inhales shakily, ticklish as Vincent untucks his shirt for him and nuzzles beneath it.  “I want you,” he murmurs.  “So much, my dear.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Vincent asks, unfastening Thomas’s trousers the rest of the way.  He pauses just before tugging down Thomas’s underwear, too, considering the situation with a mock frown.  “It’ll upset at least one of our roommates, though.  Can you be quiet?”

Thomas bursts into laughter.  He catches Vincent beneath the arms and hauls him into his lap, pulling him into a breathless kiss.  “You’re asking the wrong person,” he mumbles, unbuttoning Vincent’s shirt by feel.  “Last I checked, you’re the one that needed music as cover.”

“I can be quiet,” Vincent insists between kisses.  He makes a valiant effort, too, succeeding until they’re both shirtless and Thomas rubs both thumbs over his nipples, scraping just a touch with his blunt nails.  “Thomas,” Vincent cries, biting Thomas’s shoulder to stifle the rest.

“Shhh, shhh.”  Thomas kisses Vincent’s cheek, tipping him back against the lavish pile of pillows.  Thomas finishes undressing himself, no-nonsense, and then removes the rest of Vincent’s clothing with care.  He runs both palms from Vincent’s ankles up the backs of his calves, humbled by how readily Vincent has ceded control to him.  “I didn’t mean to take this from you,” Thomas says gently, shifting to lie on his side next to Vincent.  “You can still do whatever you want to me.  I’m yours to…well.  I’m yours.”

Vincent just squirms closer, pressing their bodies flush.  “Soy tuyo también,” he pleads.  “Te quiero tanto, Thomas.  Ah, I changed my mind…”

Thomas holds Vincent tightly, thinking that, for as much walking as they’re going to be doing over the next few days, they deserve to do this as comfortably as possible.  Vincent’s knees will thank him for the reprieve, and Thomas’s back will always thank him for not having to put in too much work.  He pins Vincent to the mattress, finding the pace he likes.

“I can’t refuse that, either,” Thomas murmurs affectionately.  “Feels good?”

Vincent makes a breathy, desperate sound, trembling under him.  “Amado.”

“Earlier tonight,” Thomas whispers in Vincent’s ear, “you were wonderful.”

Vincent arches his back enough for Thomas to get a hand under him, bucking against Thomas’s thigh.  He tries to respond, but instead gasps with the effort of not making as much noise as he’d like while Thomas gets him off.  As Thomas kisses him through the come-down, he relaxes into a sated sprawl.  Vincent fumbles between them—sighing in satisfaction as he finally finds what he’s seeking, tenderly stroking Thomas’s cock.

“I might develop a public speaking ego if you keep this up,” Vincent teases.  “Aldo would thank you, never mind that you’re also inciting pride.”

Thomas chokes back a moan as Vincent eases his hand away.  He trembles the second he’s pulled just as achingly close to Vincent as before. 

“There, that’s better,” Vincent sighs happily as Thomas shudders through a spectacular orgasm.  “Do you think Goffredo’s been trying to listen?”

“I have no idea how you’ve managed to turn this into a…a thing,” Thomas wheezes when he can find his breath, equal parts appalled and delighted.

Vincent runs his fingers through Thomas’s hair.  “I enjoy showing disdain for him in a way that harms no one.  Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Thomas shakes his head.  “Only you’d think to say, if we fuck about our annoyance with Goffredo instead of gossip, then it becomes a source of…”

“Positivity instead of toxicity.  It’s a lot more fun, isn’t it?”

“You’re not just a menace, my dear.  You’re obnoxious.”

“You wouldn’t play along if you didn’t think I was right.”

“Slippery slope, from the moment we redefined prayer.”

“Your difficulties with prayer have cleared up, though,” Vincent says, pleased with himself.

“Was that…did you just?”  Thomas gives him a dismayed look.  “Sincerely, was that a joke?”

“Do you want it to be one?” Vincent asks, hopeful, his eyes alight.  “I love making you laugh.”

“I despair of you recovering your sense of gravitas,” Thomas says dryly.  “The majority of the College of Cardinals still has no idea what utter chaos we’ve let in the door,” he teases, levering himself up on his elbows, scanning the room for anything resembling a box of tissues.

“Your mistake is assuming that I ever had it,” Vincent scolds, pushing him back down.  He rises with a grunt, pausing on the edge of the mattress to lean forward, apparently stretching. “I was ankle deep in a fountain petting turtles when you decided to continue flirting with me.”  Vincent gets to his feet with more ease after that.  He pauses to glance over his shoulder, his eyes so full of the hopeful wonder Thomas had seen in them that night that it steals Thomas’s breath.  “We had a lovely walk under the stars after that.  I fell the rest of the way in love with you.”

Thomas props himself up in earnest this time, watching Vincent disappear into the bathroom.  “I can do you one better!” he shouts.  “I fell the rest of the way in love with you the second you said the turtles were clever!”  Thomas decides to have a bit of fun at his own expense.  “Anybody capable of saying that about those turtles might have half a shot at saying that about me, too!  I thought, here’s my chance!”

Vincent starts laughing so hard in the bathroom that the sound amplified off the marble floor and tile walls is very likely audible in the other, more distant bedrooms.  He walks back out with a towel clutched to his chest, his face half buried in it, trying to stifle his hilarity.

“I love you because you saw me there, Thomas.  Saw me.”

“I love you for seeing me, too.  Now, we do need to sleep.”

3.

Y la montaña se eleva ante mí
Junto al hondo pozo del deseo
De la fuente del perdón
Más allá del hielo y del fuego

Thomas half wonders if Vincent has taken the unprecedented number of international pastoral trips taken by John Paul II as a personal challenge.  Mexico received no fewer than five visits: 1979, 1990, 1993, 1999, and 2002.  Vincent’s predecessor traveled there in 2016.  With that many public Masses having been provided by Popes in the past, Vincent’s focus during their visit to Veracruz—his hometown and the location of his first ministry—is, as it had been in Rio de Janeiro, visiting with the populace.  Someone has begun to express irritation.

After four days of touring neighborhoods—mingling with crowds assembled in churches, markets, parks, hospitals, and homeless shelters alike—the six of them have given Anton, Lorenz, and the rest of their local security detail the slip.  They’re in plainclothes, all except for Agnes, sitting on the dark, deserted stretch of Playa de Oro behind the resort where they’re being housed.  It’s unusual for the Church to clear accommodations like these. Thomas doesn’t know what Agnes must’ve said to the Archbishop here so as not to have this seem like a slight.

“Is this how you would like them to remember you, Santo Padre?” Goffredo asks, taking a hit on his vape, forearms propped on his knees.  The Patriarch of Venice in casual dress is a rare sight, and it’s especially absurd given that the one item he never dispenses with is the pair of monogrammed shoes.  “Shaking hands, kissing babies.  Serving soup.  Cómo estás?  Que Dios lo bendiga, mi niño—la bendiga, mi niña,” he adds hastily, rolling his eyes, dropping his attempt at an impression of Vincent.  “Common things?  No memorable sermon?”

“Your Spanish is getting better,” Vincent commends, leaning forward to peer around Thomas at Goffredo.  “I served my first ministry here—for nearly a decade, my brother.  I spent too much time worrying about words in my youth.  I’d rather focus on remembering people now.  So, I offer what little I can.  Gestures, service.  Connection.  Believe it or not, the people here will remember us for that.  Even you.”

Goffredo takes another hit on his vape, shifting uncomfortably.  “I do not understand how you it, this thing—you look at me, say a few platitudes, and I am ashamed.  I have tried to avoid incurring its repetition, but I have not succeeded.  Have mercy on an old man.”

Agnes smacks the back of Goffredo’s head.  The impact is one of the most satisfying sounds that Thomas has ever heard.  “You know damned well what you’re doing to incur it.  Maybe it’s time you stopped being so disingenuous, Eminence.  No more turtle naming.”

“As long as you’re not retracting the ones I have named,” Goffredo mutters.

“Oh, I think that could probably be arranged,” Aldo says with gleeful malice.

Elysia has been sitting to one side, watching them, mystified, as she smokes a cigarette.  “This is what you guys do with your time off?”

Thomas shrugs apologetically as Vincent, afflicted with silent laughter, leans heavily into him.  “It’s for the best that we’re shattering your illusions early on,” he sighs, putting an arm around Vincent to steady him, realizing too late that Elysia has raised her phone.  “What are you—”

Flash.  Elysia grins, lowering the device.  “Relax. It’s not the Press Office camera.  I’ll delete this after I text it to you, how’s that?”

Vincent looks extremely flattered.  “Send it to me if Thomas doesn’t want it.”

“No, I want it,” Thomas insists, giving Vincent a shove.  “Text it to both of us.”

“You,” Agnes says to Elysia, getting to her feet.  “Up.  We’re going back inside.”

“Yes, Sister,” Elysia says, stubbing her cigarette out in the pristine white sand.  She winces, shoves the butt back in the box, and scrambles to her feet.  “Good night, Eminences, Holy Father,” she adds hastily, waving as Agnes grabs her wrist and leads her away.

Aldo glances sidelong at Goffredo, as if there’s something he’s been waiting to say in the absence of polite company, not that the ladies are anything resembling polite.  “You really need to knock that shit off,” he says, far too earnest.  “This working relationship needs to last.”

“What, this?” Goffredo asks, gesturing among the four of them.  “Or this?” he asks, gesturing between the two of them.  “Which is the problem?”

Thomas shoots Vincent a warning glance, grabbing his hand.  “You wanted to show me something?  Ah—where the Olive Ridleys used to nest?”

“Yes,” Vincent confirms.  “If we’re lucky, they still do,” he says, hauling Thomas to his feet.  They flee just in time for the shouting to start.

They’re able to walk a decent distance, although their security detail has, of course, caught up with where they are and formed a sort of perimeter back a ways from where the sand starts.  The resort is gated to begin with, which irks Vincent to no end.  It hadn’t been here in his youth.

“This beach used to be wide open,” Vincent says, staring out over calm waves that glitter with cloud-filtered moonlight.  He tightens his grasp on Thomas’s hand, leading him far enough into the surf that each chilly, shocking breaker hits them in the shins.  “I guess that in some ways it’s safer for them.  I don’t think there are any nests right now, or we would see them staked off and marked with string.  That’s what the volunteers do.  At least that way, they’re not as vulnerable to harm from humans.  There’s not much you can do about sea birds and other predators, though.”

Thomas understands what Vincent is trying to tell him with sudden, delighted clarity.  “Is this why you love turtles so much?”  He playfully elbows Vincent.  “Your origin story?  Is this one of the volunteer initiatives your mission used to participate in?  If so, that’s…”

Vincent side-eyes him, fondly annoyed, but there’s sincere confirmation in his expression.  “Olive Ridley sea turtles have a conservation status of vulnerable.  That’s far better than endangered, but it has fluctuated over time.  My fascination with them started in childhood.  I couldn’t really do anything useful until I was an adult in an organizing capacity, so…yes.  Congratulations, Thomas.  You’ve found me out.”

For one excruciating instant, Thomas tears his eyes away from Vincent’s face.  He scans the nearest members of their security detail, relieved to find that it’s Anton and Lorenz—but keenly aware that there are other eyes on them, ones that, while rigorously vetted by Aldo and Agnes, he’s uncertain they can trust.  Thomas turns back to Vincent, bringing his right hand up between them, clasping it between his own.

Moonlight reflects off the silver fisherman’s ring, revealing months of scratches and wear.

“I don’t care, Thomas,” Vincent whispers.  “I don’t care who is watching us right now.”

Thomas kisses Vincent’s ring.  And then the back of his hand, and then pulls him into his arms.  What’s a moment like this worth, if not risking their entire world to love this man who loves every creature, no matter how insignificant—from turtle hatchlings to Thomas himself?

“How does it go?” Thomas whispers in Vincent’s ear.  “The Spanish recording she made of your other favorite, the one neither of us knew about?”

Vincent lets his head drop against Thomas’s shoulder as he draws a tremulous breath.  “Lanza tu mirada al océano,” he half whispers, half sings, “lanza tu alma hacia la mar.  Cuando la noche es eterna, me recordarás.”  His voice breaks.  “No me hagas esto, Dios,” he begs.  “Don’t take—”

“Vincent,” Thomas murmurs, holding him even more tightly, “I’m not going anywhere.  No one can take me away from you.”  He sheepishly reconsiders that statement.  “Well, all right, God can—but I’m not going to let Him any time soon.  Presumptuous of me, perhaps.”

Vincent bursts into tearful laughter against Thomas’s neck.  “I’m afraid every day the cancer will come back,” he confesses.  “That I’ll lose you.”

“You shouldn’t dwell on that,” Thomas tells him.  “I don’t.”

Vincent lifts his head, peering at him through tears.  “No?”

“No,” Thomas says, smiling at him.  “You’re here now.”

“I am here now,” Vincent agrees.  “Adonde tú vayas.”

Whither thou goest.  Thomas kisses him, damn the risk.

4.

Compartimos el camino
Qué frágil es el corazón
Dale a mis pies alas para volar
Y tocar el rostro de los astros

Vincent’s predecessor had visited Canada, as had John Paul II on several occasions, the fucking overachiever.  But keeping score suddenly seems trivial.  As the crowd disperses after Vincent’s Mass at the Shrine of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, Joseph Tremblay is waiting for them.  Thomas hadn’t spotted him in the crowd, so it’s anyone’s guess as to where he’d been lurking.  Perhaps he’d only just arrived, waiting until the estimated end so he’d be able to ambush them as they made their way back to the Canadian government-provided limousines.

“I’m told you were in rare form, Holy Father,” Joe says to Vincent.  He glances at Thomas, Aldo, and Agnes in turn.  “I see the gang’s all here,” Joe adds cheerfully.  “Minus Ray, plus you,” he says to Goffredo, surprised.  “That must sting.  How’s the Monsignor taking it?”

“He stayed behind voluntarily,” Aldo says curtly, stepping between Vincent and Joe.  “We’re on a tight schedule, Father.  What do you need from us?”

“It’s less something I need,” Joe says, pulling his phone from his pocket, swiping before handing it to Aldo, “and more something I have.”

Thomas turns away as Aldo’s expression goes deathly pale and incandescently, furiously blank at whatever he’s seeing on Joe’s phone screen.  He doesn’t have to look; he can guess.  I don’t care who’s watching, Vincent had told Thomas.  Damn the risk, Thomas had told himself.

“How did I miss this?” Aldo asks, grimly flipping back and forth between several photographs.

“We both did,” Goffredo says in defeat, peering over Aldo’s shoulder.  “Fighting.  Too distracted.”

“Something you need me not to have,” Joe continues with false concern.  “When security on the ground in Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro yielded nothing, I was almost disappointed.  Maybe the rumors coming out of the Vatican simply weren’t true.”  He tsks, tapping the screen of his phone before yanking it out of Aldo’s suddenly tenacious grasp.  “But then, I thought…no, if he’s going to slip anywhere, it’s going to be at home, and Thomas won’t be far behind.  It took the full five days in Veracruz, but you folded like a bad hand of cards, didn’t you?”

Thomas refuses to answer.  He can’t even look at Joe anymore.  Agnes seems about ready to break her vows and murder him, as does Goffredo.

“That doesn’t necessarily change the question,” Vincent says calmly, touching Thomas’s arm to reassure him.  “What do you need from us?  Or, as the case may be, want from us?  I’ve been blackmailed before.  You’re not even threatening to kill me as an incentive to play along.”

“More information,” Joe says.  “See, this isn’t the real secret.  You’re not the first Pope to—” here, Joe must be gesturing at him “—have an indulgence.  At least it’s a committed one.  That’s a better look on the gossip circuit than if it’s one flavor of the week after another.”  Joe clears his throat.  “No, there’s…something else.  Holy Father, did you know that Ray made external inquiry after external inquiry on Thomas’s behalf during the conclave?  And do you know what every one of those inquiries had in common, once he’d exhausted the ones that were about me?”

“I do,” Vincent replies, still unnervingly patient.  “They were about me.  I would hardly expect the presiding Dean not to perform due diligence on a dark horse candidate who’d been made a cardinal in pectore.  Thomas’s performance was exemplary under the circumstances.”

“Yes, but asking Ray to pull your medical records?” Joe asks, affecting a simulacrum of heavy compassion toward Vincent’s vulnerable situation.  “Nobody should be subjected to that.  It crosses the line into almost—oh, I hate to say it, but at that point it’s just stalking.”

Thomas rounds on him, dislodging Vincent’s hand from his arm.  “You,” he says, unable to keep emotion from flooding his voice, “know nothing about the underlying situation.  I had genuine concern for Vincent’s safety, and I’m under no obligation to elaborate—nor is he!”

Joe takes a step back, genuinely startled.  He shrugs helplessly at Thomas and Vincent.  “I suppose you’re going to tell me that it’s all out in the open now, anyway,” he says, addressing Agnes this time.  “Isn’t that right, Sister Vice Director of the Holy See Press Office?”

Agnes, who Thomas knows has been biding her time, breaks away from Elysia.  She steps so close to Joe that there’s no room for a Bible between them.  For a man so tall facing a woman so short in comparison, Joe looks like he’s regretting every choice he’s made since sunrise.

“I don’t know exactly what is on your phone, but I’ve got the gist,” Agnes sighs.  “I turned in early on our last night in Mexico.  I shouldn’t have done that.”  She half turns, shooting Thomas and Vincent a murderous glance.  “Still,” she continues, “what’s done is done.  You seem inclined to let that part go. You’re a smart man, Father.”  Agnes squares her shoulders.  “The situation with the seizures isn’t life threatening, but it’s complex.  Obviously, the press release didn’t go into that.  One of the reasons I’m on this trip is that we knew it might come back to haunt us, and that you’d be the likeliest specter to rattle those chains.  I’ve brought every piece of confidential documentation related to the matter.  His Holiness has humbled himself in giving me clearance to sit down and share those with you if need be.  Would you have me subject him to that violation for your benefit?  Just now, you claimed you were horrified on his behalf when you learned that Ray and Thomas had gained access to those files.”

Much like he had done in the dining hall on the morning that Agnes had helped Thomas to expose his financial infractions, Joe just stares at her.  He’s silent for a very long time—realizing with inexorably rising panic that his grandstanding has once again fucked him over.

And Goffredo?  He knows his part in this farce down to the second.  For all that they’d brought him along to make noise, Thomas realizes that’s not actually why they need him.  Goffredo sidles up next to Agnes and takes an obnoxious hit on his vape, scornful expression and all.

“Why, that’s—no,” Joe says, backpedaling hastily.  “Of course not!”  He waves his hand in front of his face to clear the pomegranate smoke, apparently deciding he’s had enough of this unholy inquisition.  “It’s been a—a pleasure to catch up,” he coughs.  “Good luck in Santa Fé.”

Agnes moves so fast that it makes Thomas jump.  She grabs the back of Joe’s robes just as he begins to retreat, which causes him to stumble—and, whether by luck or design, Joe’s phone goes flying from his hand.  “Elysia!” Agnes shouts.  “Don’t just stand there!  Get it!”

Thomas watches the girl dash and make a dive for the phone, which…admittedly, the glass has shattered against the concrete of the parking lot.  Still, that doesn’t prevent her from snatching it and…navigating to Joe’s photos and texts to delete accordingly, Thomas hopes.  The Cloud exists, but Elysia knows about all of that.  Agnes isn’t an idiot; she wouldn’t hire an idiot.  And if all else fails, there’s the IT freelancer cousin.

“Deleted from everywhere,” Elysia says after about five minutes of everyone just staring at a dejected Joe sitting on the pavement with Agnes still holding his scapular like a leash.  “Factory reset to boot.”  She gives Agnes a thumbs-up, walks back, and hands Joe his phone.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Aldo says under his breath.  “Know who she reminds me of?”

“Want to take a guess?” Thomas asks, meeting Vincent’s amused sidelong glance.  

“When we get to Santa Fé,” Vincent says, “remind me to light a candle for Fran.”

5.

Dale vida a mi débil corazón
Levanta el mortal velo del miedo
Esperanzas rotas de lágrimas
Lanzadas en la ansia del fuego

No Pope has ever visited the state of New Mexico, let alone the city of Santa Fé.  They will spend the last three and a half days of their trip in a place so tranquil in comparison to their previous stops that it feels like dreaming.  On the evening of their arrival, after checking in at the Hotel Saint Francis, he and Vincent genuinely manage to give security the slip and walk the quiet streets surrounding the Plaza, intimately lit and abuzz with its bar-hopping crowd, unnoticed.  Thomas can’t believe they’re alone in the wider world for the first time in their shared life.

They pause in front of the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi, entranced by the beauty of its ethereally lit façade.  The tall pines and lushly planted gardens around the periphery remind Thomas of old world cathedrals, and the bronze statue of Saint Kateri is on prominent display.

“It’s like the fountain at Mater Ecclesiæ,” Vincent whispers.  “As if time froze here.”

Thomas nods, contemplating the face of the statue.  “You’ll give Mass here tomorrow, and then there’s lunch with tribal leaders from around the region.  Dinner with state and regional government officials, I think.  It’s a shame that the relaxed local dress code won’t apply to us.”

“We’ll visit several nearby pueblos the day after?  Pojoaque, Tesuque, and San Ildefonso?  Aldo told me, but I forgot.  We had better, because I want time with more than just their leaders,” Vincent says contemplatively.  “I know that other tribes are sending representatives tomorrow, at least.”

“What you’re doing here is unprecedented,” Thomas says softly.  “I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t say it too soon,” Vincent quips, leaning into him.  “They haven’t met me yet.”

The next day, to a standing-room-only crowd composed of both clergy and members of the public, Vincent breaks form and delivers his homily in both Spanish and English.  He’d only used Spanish on previous stops.  The reactions afterward are glowing.  Thomas thinks that the only way Vincent could’ve done even better still is if he’d translated his remarks into one of the regional Native languages.  Next time, if there’s a next time, he’ll suggest Diné or Tewa based on the reading he’d done ahead of their visit.  When he says as much to Vincent, as they’re hiding together in one of their unfortunately separate hotel rooms during down-time after lunch, it gets him smacked in the face with a pillow.

The next day’s pueblo visits go smoothly.  Vincent’s easy, grounded manner makes for a relaxed atmosphere and warm reception.  Thomas can’t help but notice, now that he has another day’s worth of data, that Vincent is especially popular with young people broadly in Elysia’s age bracket, perhaps mid-twenties to forty.  There’s distinct hope in their eyes, bright and tenacious, as they watch him speak and interact with him.

Aldo and Goffredo, having been sent on an admittedly unusual day-long errand by Thomas, meet back up with Thomas, Vincent, Agnes, and Elysia for dinner.  Between the main course and dessert, Vincent excuses himself to use the loo.  That’s when Aldo slides a small, white lidded box tied with gold stretchy string across the table.  Thomas grabs it and sticks it in his pocket; inspecting the contents would be too much of a risk.

“I’m going to be merciful,” Aldo says, “and say you don’t owe me for this.  Not after what you paid for those medals.”

Goffredo folds his arms.  “We went…do I have to say this?  Splitsies?  Mah, that sounds terrible.  It is from both of us.”

“Do I even want to know what you paid?” Thomas asks.  “Materials?”

“Antler, lapis lazuli, and turquoise from Fox Mine, whatever the hell that means,” Aldo says, mystified.  “There’s paperwork.”

“They showed it to me, Your Eminence,” Elysia whispers loudly.  “It’s so cute!”

Agnes mimes zipping her lips, crosses herself with her wine glass, and drinks.

“I don’t know what to…”  Thomas stares helplessly at them.  “Thank you?”

“It means expensive, Tommaso,” Goffredo supplies.  “You are welcome.”

Once they’re finished eating, Vincent is exhausted.  He falls asleep in Thomas’s room, and Thomas doesn’t have the heart to wake him.  He gets Vincent undressed, crawls under the covers with him, and before he knows it he’s waking to fragile light through the high window.  

Thomas reverently touches Vincent’s cheek, watching his eyes flutter open.  “There you are.”

Vincent catches Thomas’s hand against his jaw.  “Did we make it?” he whispers.  “Is it today?”

“We did,” Thomas whispers back, his eyes stinging with tears of disbelief.  “It is, my dear.”

Abruptly, Vincent sits up, comically disheveled.  “Are you superstitious?  This is supposed to be bad luck,” he remarks reluctantly.  “I should go.”

Thomas catches his wrist, preventing him from getting out of bed.  “I’m not, and you’re not staying right here,” he laughs.  “I’ll get your clothes.”

Vincent nods, relieved.  He crowds into Thomas’s arms and gives him an exuberant kiss.  “We’re normal sightseers today, insofar as we can be?”

“Yes,” Thomas says.  “No more official obligations.  I wish…”  He sighs.  “Wish it could be more than moments stolen under the ruse of tourism.”

Shrugging, Vincent plants the next kiss on Thomas’s cheek, settling against his chest.  “We’re getting exactly what I planned in the first place.”

“I know that,” Thomas concedes fondly, holding Vincent close.  “My trouble incarnate.”

The six of them meet their security detail in the lobby of Hotel Saint Francis.  Agnes is in her full habit, Elysia is dressed as if for Mass on a high holy day, and the rest of them are in choir dress accordingly—Vincent in his least ornate white ensemble, and the three cardinals in red.

Much to the irritation of Anton, Lorenz, and their local security team, Vincent insists on walking to Loretto Chapel.  It’s two tenths of a mile, and should be less than five minutes on foot.  The walk is as picturesque as every other walk they’ve taken through the center of town.

By the time crowds close in around them, locals and tourists alike, five minutes become twenty.  Fortunately, Agnes has accounted for this, and they’re not late to meet the museum docent who meets them outside the quaint, striking little Gothic chapel on Old Santa Fé Trail.

“We’ve never had such an honor,” the docent says.  “We’re closed to the general public today thanks to your donation.  You can…”  She gestures expansively as she holds the door open for them.  “You can stay as long as you wish, Your Holiness, as long as you’re out by five.”

And, just like that, the six of them are standing in the sanctuary while the docent rejoins Anton, Lorenz, and the rest of their security detail outside.  Vincent genuflects first, and then seems to hesitate before walking down the central aisle.  His eyes are already on the Miraculous Staircase to their left, winding from the altar at the front up to the choir loft.  Thomas has rarely seen Vincent terrified; awe is close enough.

“How do they not know?” Vincent asks as Thomas joins him, studying the taut spiral railing.  “Completed between 1877 and 1881?  That’s well into modernity.  The nuns left a record of the timber purchase.  How do they not know who they hired, who spent years building this?”

Agnes clears her throat.  “Had I been in charge, I would’ve damned well gotten the carpenter’s name for future reference.  While the sisters may well have prayed for nine days straight to Saint Joseph leading up to the carpenter’s arrival, I read that there was one other staircase in New Mexico like this.  François-Jean Rochas was a French immigrant, reclusive rancher, and talented carpenter.  He built the one at Saint Vincent Sanitarium, which…burned down.  It also lacked a central pole, had double helix stringers, and was held together by wooden pegs, not nails.”

Elysia breaks the ensuing contemplative silence by snapping a sequence of photographs with the Press Office camera.  Once she’s satisfied that she’s gotten every possible angle, she sets the camera down a few pews back from the front and gives Thomas a meaningful look.

Goffredo catches the exchange and huffs.  He looks like he can’t believe that he, of all people, is stuck here in Ray’s stead while this is happening.  That’s why he’s been given a job, apparently: he pulls his phone out of his pocket, punches the screen a few times, and waits.

Aldo smirks at Thomas.  “Didn’t think it was possible to bring him around without a fuss, did you?  I’m a goddamn miracle worker.”

I don’t want to know what said miracle entailed, Thomas thinks dryly.

“Hello?” Ray says, his voice emanating faintly from Goffredo’s phone until Goffredo cranks up the volume and turns the phone around so that all of them can FaceTime.  “Hello!  Oh, look at all of you,” he says, one hand pressed over his crucifix, choked up.  “It’s time already?”

“No, we’re just standing around for the hell of it,” Agnes retorts.  “Yes, it’s time.  Eleven in the morning here.  About seven in the evening there?”

“Ah,” Ray agrees.  “So it is.”  Behind him, familiar stonework stairs are suddenly visible; it’s then that Thomas wonders where on earth he is.

“Ray, are you outside?” Aldo blurts before Thomas can beat him to it.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ray says deviously, and suddenly the view on Goffredo’s screen turns outward to reveal the turtles’ fountain.  “I’m not going to stay out here, of course, because you never know who might wander by and overhear.  Still,” he continues, pointing the camera at his feet, where there’s a rectangular plastic tub containing Fran.  “I’m going to bring her inside with me.  She can represent the whole flock.”

“Flotilla,” Thomas corrects stubbornly, turning away from the screen while Vincent coos and waves at Fran so that Ray won’t see him tear up.

“Whatever,” Ray says, and then there’s interference from a flurry of movement on his end.  He must be picking up the tub and starting to walk somewhere.  “Just give me a moment, and I’ll be indoors.  I’m not taking her as far as Casa Santa Marta or anything like that.”

Thomas turns around to find Goffredo frowning at his phone screen, apparently following Ray’s progress on behalf of all of them.  Goffredo’s expression does something peculiar.  And then there’s complete collapse, and sardonic laughter.  Goffredo turns the phone back around.

Ray turns the phone upward to the scaffolding inside the Sistine Chapel, and then back down to show Fran’s tub in the curve of his arm.  Next, he turns and follows a route that Thomas knows too well.  Next to him, Vincent’s breath catches; he grabs Thomas’s hand so tightly it hurts.

“This building is meant to be off-limits even during the day as long as repairs are ongoing, so I figured…”  Ray shrugs as he crosses the Room of Tears.  He takes a seat on the bench along the far wall, sets Fran down at his feet, and settles in with the phone held in front of him.

Aldo doesn’t even have to shift position so that he’s standing on the opposite side of Thomas and Vincent from where Goffredo’s standing with the phone.  He does have to take hold of their elbows to arrange them so that they’re standing parallel to him, facing each other, because they’re both overwhelmed by the surprise that Ray has been able to provide from so far away.  They’re blessed beyond measure to have him.

“I’m not going to waste time on too much ceremony, because I know neither one of you wants that,” Aldo says graciously.  “We’ve been steeped in it our whole lives.  Even I get tired of it,” he says, winking at Thomas.  “We’re gathered here today to celebrate…well, as much of a union between these two foolhardy heretics as Holy Mother Church will allow.”  Aldo sighs heavily, rolling his eyes.  “But seriously, no.  Let’s try that again.  We’re here to celebrate the union of Thomas Lawrence and Vincent Benítez in Holy Matrimony because I fucking say so.”

As Vincent takes hold of Thomas’s hands, everyone except for Goffredo applauds.  He has the excuse of holding the phone. Thomas refuses to look away from Vincent’s face, though.  His entire world is there—and all of his joy reflects back at him, mingled with Vincent’s.

“Are there any vows you’d like to exchange before I get on with the boring fine print?” Aldo asks, glancing from Vincent to Thomas.  “Last chance.”

Thomas shakes his head at Vincent, smiling so hard his face hurts.  Vincent will understand why.  If he doesn’t, then Thomas will apologize later.

“No,” Vincent tells Aldo without hesitation, speaking for both of them.  “You know we already did that in private.  It would be redundant.”

“Yep, scarred for life,” Aldo says.  “Thomas, do you take Vincent to be your husband because I fucking say so as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Thomas tells Vincent.  He’s starting to cry already; there’s nothing for it.

“God, give me strength,” Aldo mutters, crossing himself, and Thomas knows it’s because he’s struggling not to break down in tears, too.  They always have set each other off.  “Vincent, do you take Thomas to be your husband because I fucking say so as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Vincent says, with sincere laughter in his voice.  Thomas loves him for it.

Aldo begins to recite a nuptial blessing that Thomas recognizes from one of the texts they’d used at Allen Hall—with some tweaks.  “Holy Father, maker of the whole world, who created humanity in Your own image and willed that their union be crowned with Your blessing, we humbly beseech You for these Your servants, who are joined today in the Marriage Covenant.  May Your abundant blessing, Lord, come down upon this groom, Vincent, and upon Thomas, his companion for life, and may the power of Your Holy Spirit set their hearts aflame from on high, so that, living out together the gift of Matrimony, they may be known for the integrity of their conduct and be recognized as virtuous—hah, unlikely—stewards of Holy Mother Church.  In happiness may they praise You, O Lord, and in sorrow may they seek you out.  May they have the joy of Your presence to assist them in their toil and know that You are near to comfort them in their need.  After a happy old age, together with the circle of friends that surrounds them, may they come to the Kingdom of Heaven.”  He makes the sign of the cross over them.  “Through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

“Amen,” Agnes manages, blowing her nose and laughing into a handkerchief.

“Amen,” Elysia says, backed by Goffredo’s and Ray’s lower tones.  “Open it!”

Thomas barely understands what she means by that, because Vincent pulls him into a kiss so fierce that their surroundings fall away.  Leave it to him not to wait for Aldo’s next line—which, honestly, if he hadn’t been impatient about it, then Thomas would’ve been instead.

“You may now kiss…yeah, fair enough,” Aldo is saying in the background.

“They exchanged the medals already,” Elysia says, “but there’s the thing!”

Thomas breaks the kiss, mystified, and hugs Vincent tightly.  “What thing?”

“Please don’t tell me you forgot it,” Aldo says.  “The thing from dinner.”

“There was a thing at dinner?” Vincent says against Thomas’s shoulder.

“I am surrounded by buffoons,” Goffredo tells Ray on the phone screen.

“Yeah, no, I sort of got that,” Ray replies sympathetically.  “Thomas—”

“I didn’t forget it!” Thomas exclaims, releasing Vincent.  He reaches into his pocket, withdrawing the small white box, holding it up for everyone to see.  “Since there are no rings, and since we’d already exchanged medals in the Sanctuary of the Holy House, I thought…”  He hands the box to Vincent.  “I thought that a token particular to where we are might better commemorate the occasion.  It also takes into account—”

Vincent has already managed to slide off the stretchy gold string tying the box shut, and the Zuñi fetish carving from inside now sits in the palm of his hand.  Too entranced by the intricate object, he drops the box and folded papers on the floor, so Thomas hastily collects and pockets them.

The turtle’s body, carved from a segment of high-polished deer antler, is studded with tiny cabochons of lapis lazuli for the eyes and around the outer periphery of the shell.  The remaining segments of the shell are studded with at least two dozen cabochons of Fox turquoise.  Aldo had texted Thomas pictures of at least thirty different carvings during their day of pueblo visits, but he’d stubbornly refused to include the prices.  Only this one had endeared itself to Thomas, with its colorful shell and the corners of its mouth upturned in the suggestion of a quirky smile.

“Where did you find this?” Vincent says, tears finally filling his eyes as he clutches the carving.  “When did you find time?”

Thomas pulls Vincent back into his arms, shielding him until his choked sobs have passed.  He accepts the fresh handkerchief that Agnes passes to him and leads Vincent over to one of the front row pews.  Thomas presses Vincent to sit, sinks down next to him, and patiently wipes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to let go of the turtle—which he has clasped in both hands now, running his fingertips over the turquoise.

“I sent Aldo and Goffredo to the Zuñi co-op across from our hotel,” Thomas explains.  “That’s why they actually weren’t with us.”

“It wasn’t ambassadorial matters, then,” Vincent replies, glancing at them, clearly impressed.  “I was too distracted to question.”

“You’re the fucking Pope,” Aldo retorts, grinning at him.  “You’re too busy.”

Goffredo waves his hand at Vincent, feigning disdain.  “Will you name it?”

Vincent just smiles in response, shaking his head, and then looks at Elysia.

“Wait,” Elysia says, tapping her collarbone with one finger.  “You want me to…”

“Don’t pass up the chance,” Agnes advises her.  “It’s quite a coveted opportunity.”

Ray has put Fran in-frame on the phone.  “Fran, Junior!  Fran, Junior!” he chants.

“I feel like we should apologize to the nuns and the carpenter for this,” Aldo says.

Vincent opens his hands, holding the carving out to Thomas.  “Unless you’d like to?”

“Thomas should really be the one to do that,” Elysia replies.  “No hard feelings!”

Thomas picks up the carving, turning it over in his hands.  He’d chosen it on the basis of an intangible photograph, mere pixels on a screen.  The memory of Vincent’s election comes flooding back, as does his encounter with Fran, then unnamed, on the chapel floor.

“What are you thinking about?” Vincent asks, folding his hands around Thomas’s fingers and the carving alike.  “Where did you go just now?”

“Back to the day you told me every last secret there was to know,” Thomas replies.  “The day you became what you are to me and to the world.”

Vincent nods in understanding.  “I told you not to be a martyr.  You became my miracle instead.”

“And you remain mine.  Milagro,” Thomas replies decisively, setting the turtle in Vincent’s hand.