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The cell is small, with flaking white paint on the walls, a small barred window, and a hard, raised platform upon which a familiar figure is resting quietly. The bed is too short even for Vincent’s small stature - he lies on his side with his knees tucked up, with one arm folded under his head for a pillow, the other resting lightly on his belly, rising and falling with his slow, even breaths. Ray’s breath catches at the sight of scrapes on his knuckles, at the trickle of blood that starts somewhere near his temple.
At least he doesn’t have a black eye. I don’t know how either of us would explain that away.
His eyes are closed, but he is smiling.
It isn’t lost on Ray that Vincent is in the same clothes he arrived in on that first day of the conclave, the shirt with the hand-mended shoulder, the collar warped from wear, trousers going threadbare at the hems. Same old shoes with seams that are clinging on for dear life.
It’s clear why nobody believed him when he said he was the Pope.
Ray, on the other hand, is in a black cassock, with a black fascia. He hopes the Lord will forgive him for the deception - he had needed to strike a balance between discretion and believability that he is in fact a Vatican official.
The young officer’s hands shake as he goes to unlock the cell door, and the rattling of the keys finally wakes Vincent. His expression lights up the moment he sees Ray.
“You came for me!” he says, delighted, like he hasn’t been detained until four in the morning in a police cell in the middle of Rome.
“Ti prego, perdonami, Santità,” stammers the officer, “Holy Father, I cannot tell you how sorry I am-”
Vincent’s expression abruptly falls, and he shoots a look of betrayal at Ray.
“Believe it or not, this was the preferable option,” says Ray, keeping his tone mild, “you can’t arrest the Pope, so luckily for you, there’ll be no paper trail.”
Vincent blinks at him.
“You can do this?”
Ray taps the hastily assembled folder under his arm.
“I told you I’d take care of it.”
He enters the cell, though the action of doing so makes him shiver. The knowledge of being surrounded by steel, of being caged without the ability to leave, it troubles him more than he cares to admit. His mind’s eye supplies the image of a door swinging shut, and he hurries to offer Vincent a hand up.
Up close, Vincent looks more weary than he’s been letting on. There are fine lines beneath his eyes, and he’s not too proud to take Ray’s hands to help him stand, stiff and sore.
“Already I am growing unaccustomed to conditions like this,” says Vincent, making an attempt at a grin, “how easily one can get used to luxury.”
“I’d hardly call your current rooms luxurious, your-”
Ray bites off the rest of the honorific as Vincent squeezes his hand hard enough to hurt. His eyes are wide, pleading. Ray sighs inwardly, the frightened, angry, frustrated words he’d been preparing on the drive here already dissolving. He wishes he didn’t understand why Vincent had snuck out, but anyone with half a brain could put the pieces together. The man who had been Vincent Benítez is being slowly suffocated out of existence.
“Come on,” he says instead, taking Vincent’s hand and looping it around his arm, “let’s go home.”
*
In the back of their car, Ray kneels on the back seat and dabs away the blood on Vincent’s brow, dusts him off, helps smooth his hair back into some semblance of orderliness. Vincent takes his fussing with no argument, though neither does he smile or joke, or even respond.
“I brought your cassock. In case we’re seen on the way back in.”
Vincent nods. Stares at the floor of their chauffeured car. Ray feels like he’s the one putting the handcuffs back on his friend.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Vincent takes a long, shuddering breath.
“I am trying very hard not to become resentful of the people here who are at once friend and jailer,” he says softly, “that is not a fair way to think of you, and I - I hate myself for thinking it. Please, forgive me Ray. You have been so kind to me, and yet - the positions we’re in-”
“Vincent.”
The name feels strange on his lips, but he forces it anyway. For his sake.
Vincent looks up at him abruptly, questioning.
“The late Holy Father - your predecessor - he used to sneak out sometimes, too. It’s not entirely impossible, but like everything else around here, it goes a little easier if you have some help.”
He pauses, trying for a smile.
“Well, he also managed to keep himself out of street fights as well, which probably helped.”
“You would do this?” says Vincent excitedly, “you would help?”
He grins impishly at Ray.
“I promise to stay out of trouble.”
Ray nods.
“Of course,” he says, “I promised I’d look after you, remember? The day you arrived.”
Rome lies dormant around them, slow and secretive before the rising of the sun. The streetlights send patches of light through the windows, one after the other, sliding across them until it disappears, only to be replaced by another. In between one of the lights, Vincent reaches across the seat and grasps his hand. Holds on tightly - not as a silent signal, but just to touch. To hold.
“I’m glad you called me,” whispers Ray, into the fragile darkness.