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It goes as ordained by God: Vincent—Innocent—is elected pontiff and things are better for it for everyone, not least of all Thomas, whose connection to God is strengthened. Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. It’s not a verse Thomas is very good at following, but it is quoted at him often enough that he knows it by heart.
The most recent person to tell him this verse was his doctor, a Catholic with a stern expression that would put even the most austere Mother Superior to shame, alongside the news that if he did not make a serious change in his life he risked working himself to death.
Thomas seems to have grown enough during the Conclave to agree to go on leave for his health. Strangely, he does not say this in person but in a letter left on Vincent’s desk in scrawling script, informing him that he will be staying at Ray’s for a sabbatical. It makes sense. Ray had, after all, volunteered to talk some sense into Thomas. They must have had a very effective heart to heart. Vincent had been campaigning for a proper vacation with beaches or massages, anything away from the Vatican, but Aldo assures him with a wry smile that friendship with Thomas necessitates taking the small victories where one may.
Ray takes a half schedule, coming in some days to work and spending some with Thomas, who is staying at his apartment; it is farther away from the Vatican than Thomas’s own, and apparently this was the compromise he had agreed on. Aldo and Vincent are grateful for Ray’s diligence; while they all love Thomas, Ray is uniquely gifted at taking care of the man.
“Not to worry,” the man smiles, tapping the side of his nose. He’s heeded the advice of his Mrs. Sullivan in first class, who taught him he must be able to share. “My niece would be ashamed if I didn’t know how to work the camera on my phone. I’ll send pictures.”
And he does. Aldo and Vincent receive one every day in which Thomas lacks those characteristic bags under his eyes. He either smiles or looks calm, although from the way Thomas is never looking at the camera they all seem to be taken candidly. They see Thomas napping on the couch in the quiet of the afternoon, Thomas eating a small slice of cake, Thomas with his hair wet from the shower. The low hang of his shirt collar on his back shows skin, pale and weathered by age, but unburned.
Ray must admit, if only to God, that he is not telling the whole truth about how their cohabitation began.
He had invited Thomas over one night to gently express everyone's concerns about how he'd been working himself into the ground. Naturally, the dean denied that there was a problem and when Ray pushed, he got angry. Snapping at Ray never failed to get the nervous man to mind his own business. Never before.
Ray’s face bears an unreadable expression and gets the two of them cups of tea, handing Thomas his on a delicate saucer. The scent of rooibos wafts through the air. Thomas's anger has evaporated, left only with bone-deep guilt. God, Thomas is truly awful. He is drinking his tea, contemplating how to distance himself from Ray, sweet Ray, to spare him the pains of knowing Thomas, when Ray sets down his own teacup and sighs.
“You’re not taking care of yourself.” Ray looks exhausted all of a sudden. “You never have, and I’m not going to watch it happen any longer. I won’t watch you die.”
Thomas frowns, opens his mouth to more gently assert that he's perfectly fine, thank you very much, and the teacup is heavier in his hand than it had been. He stares at it. Tries to grip its small china handle but his muscles aren't responding, his eyes drooping, ears covered in a blanket of whooshing noise like the house by the sea his family vacationed at in his youth. It falls from his fingertips, the sound deadened by creeping unconsciousness.
The last thing he sees is Ray reaching out, arms spread to catch him.
The adjustment period is easier than Ray had expected, but perhaps he should have seen it coming. Thomas Lawrence was made to be taken care of, a Saint awaiting maundy. These latent instincts must have awoken within him when he found himself in Ray’s apartment that first evening, having slept through the morning and midday; the dose of flunitrazepam would have been easier on a healthier man even if it was perfectly calculated to a man of Thomas’s height and weight.
Once Thomas stops resisting, Ray insists on a bath before dinner. The drug had made Thomas sweat heavily in his sleep. A newly-fitted lock on the door ensures Thomas will go nowhere while he puts the sheets in the wash, humming all the way. He fetches Thomas from his attempts to pry open the window—really, did he think Ray wouldn’t have thought of that? On the way to the bathroom, it occurs to him: a bath seems an excellent chance for Thomas to practice accepting help. It will be difficult, but Ray is nothing if not determined. Thomas shouts at him for a while to leave and is met with kind words he hopes are more soothing than condescending until Thomas’s obstinance dries up.
“I can wash myself,” Thomas croaks.
Ray makes no sign of having heard him, continuing to bustle about the bathroom. His hand tests the temperature of the water streaming from the tap, lip quirking as he turns the knob a bit to the left. He is meticulous as ever, even if now the target of his attention is Thomas, not Curia work. Thomas sits on the closed toilet seat and watches Ray pour an aromatic liquid from a plastic bottle into the tub.
“Seaweed and arnica,” Ray explains, tapping the decal on the front. Heals aching muscles and promotes joint health, it says under the product’s brand name. He turns back towards Thomas, who flinches back.
He kneels before Thomas. The dean has a frightened look that Ray is sure will fade with time; Thomas is used to hurt, but even the most abused dogs eventually curl into their owner’s loving hand. For now, all Ray can do is unbutton Thomas’s shirt and pull his arms out of the sleeves with the gentleness that he deserves. Peeking around his slender shoulder, Ray sees the angry skin of Thomas’s back, reddened and peeling. It looks like it hurts. Ray supposes that was the point, but he can’t help but curse himself for failing to notice sooner. How many times had Thomas done this in his lifetime? It must have been at least for the duration of their acquaintance. Such awful habits were not built in a day.
No matter. Thomas will never be allowed to do it again.
It is very little effort to pull Thomas’s hands away from where they protectively grip at his trousers, which gives Ray a complicated mix of feelings. Being able to maneuver him so easily brings a thrum of satisfaction, yes, but he’s concerned about building up Thomas’s strength. Taking him in for the sake of his health had been the whole point of this, after all.
Every part of Thomas that he uncovers is beautiful. There is no sexual component to Ray’s feelings for Thomas. His milky thighs remind Ray of marble. Unthinkingly, he pinches a tiny bit of skin—and it’s quite hard to gather enough to do so, thin as Thomas is—just to make sure he is real. He is; Thomas shivers and Ray takes his surprise as an opportunity to remove the last of his clothes.
“All done.” Ray makes sure to inject as much calm into his voice as possible. He knows his voice is an anxiolytic for Thomas, although its effect has varied over the course of Thomas’s stay. “Let’s get you into the bath, hm? It’s nice and warm.”
The bathing implements are laid out along the edge of the bath. A sponge, a pumice rock, sweet-smelling lotions, conditioners, and shampoos. He’s a little embarrassed to admit it, but he’s been buying them for years, justified by his fantasies. Thomas would smell good in this, or, the cold is so hard on Thomas’s skin, perhaps this would help. They seemed self-indulgent then, but he can see now that it was only the Lord speaking to him, telling Ray to prepare himself to be Aaron to Thomas’s Moses. Ray worries he might faint with the excitement of it all coming to fruition.
Ray forces his hands to still before he tilts Thomas’s head up. A delightful shiver travels along Thomas’s neck as Ray pours warm water along his crown and picks up the shampoo. He can’t wait to smell it in bed beside him. Maybe he’ll indulge himself in running his hands through Thomas’s sparse hair. It would be good for Thomas, too; Ray read a study once on the benefits of human contact. God knows Thomas doesn’t get enough of that. Thomas’s eyes close on instinct when Ray firmly works the shampoo into a thick lather atop his head.
“Such a good boy. Such a good boy for me, Thomas.”
His lips tug southward, but Ray can see the twin bursts of color on his cheeks. Thomas obediently tilts his head on his own when Ray goes to rinse the shampoo out and apply the conditioner. He’s flinching less and less with each of Ray’s touches, instead pushing back into Ray’s hand with a pressure so gentle that Ray knows he must not be aware he’s doing it. On some subconscious level, Thomas must know that Ray represents safety, even if he’d fought rather impressively for an infirm man this morning. Neither of them had enjoyed Thomas having to be restrained while he calmed down enough for Ray to explain the situation.
Now, Thomas sits compliantly before him, washed of his weariness by a man that wishes him only the utmost happiness. He can’t deny it: it feels good to have his Thomas somewhere he can keep an eye on him.
Ray moves on to Thomas’s back. It takes a while to clean the damaged skin without hurting Thomas. The man would likely be grateful for the pain—Ray understands he finds it ‘grounding,’ or so he had learned earlier after interrogating Thomas about the burns he’d discovered during Thomas’s transport to the apartment. The thought must be pushed down quickly. It makes Ray feel a passion that threatens to have him scrubbing Thomas’s back harder than he intends, and it wouldn’t do to hurt Thomas.
When Ray finishes washing his back, he picks up the towel and holds it out, staring expectantly at Thomas.
“Ray, please.” He looks marvelously bashful.
“I apologize. Your modesty is of the utmost importance, Your Eminence,” Ray teases as he averts his eyes.
Thomas’s countenance flickers with embarrassment and fondness before he remembers the situation he’s in, puffing up in an indignant bluster. “You have no right to speak to me like that.”
Ray gives the towel a significant shake. When Thomas fails to stand, Ray makes an aborted movement that he knows will have Thomas leaping into the towel before Ray can fetch him bodily from the tub.
It works. Ray rewards himself for his foresight by wrapping his arms around Thomas, the gigantic fluffy blanket dwarfing his thin figure. He roughly dries Thomas in that half-hug. It reminds him rather comfortingly of when his nieces were younger and he used to shake them by the shoulders once they got out of the tub, giggles muffled under the towel. Unlike those times with his nieces, Ray is treated to a glare once the towel is tied about Thomas’s waist. His hair crops up in wild tufts.
“I’ve brought clothes from your apartment, so you’ll dress and then we’ll eat. I was thinking tagliolini for dinner. With a side salad.” He says all this like he hasn’t prepared an entire meal plan down to the micronutrients to boost Thomas’s recovery.
Dinner is plated and served within the hour. A recalcitrant Thomas, wearing comfortable slacks and a wool sweater, picks at it without even making an effort to appear to eat. After a few minutes of this, Ray sighs. “It’s not drugged.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
The note of incredulity hurts Ray more than he lets on. He focuses on adjusting the tagliotini on his plate into a pile. Thomas had really spread it all over, which was a shame because Ray had spent a not insignificant amount of time on plating in the meal plan. Before setting out on this, he’d had no idea that it was such a varied art form. He’d learned six different ways to smear sauce on a plate to create the most visually appealing meal. The idea was to entice Thomas into eating, if such a thing was possible.
Ray contemplates telling him that if he wanted Thomas drugged he would have little trouble doing it, but it seems the wrong thing to say. He switches their plates instead. This is not enough for Thomas, who gathers his courage to speak. Even manages to keep the shake out of his voice. “This—keeping me here—is wrong. You have to know that, Ray. ”
“I suppose I’ll just watch you die, then?”
“For goodness sake, Ray–”
“You think I’m exaggerating? We all know you would do it. Not eat, not sleep. It’s just like the cancer, but you don’t even have an excuse this time. No, I think you like to do it.” Thomas attempts to burst in, coloring a deep red in an instant, but Ray continues. Rage courses through his veins so hot that he feels dizzy with it, set aflame with righteousness like a Baptist preacher. “You like it, don’t you? Withering away like that. Don’t get me wrong, you’re not doing it for attention, nothing so pedestrian. You do it because you enjoy feeling faint from hunger. You stand under hot water because you think you deserve the pits of hell and rejoice in recreating it. You truly believe, deep down, that there is something good and holy in your own torture. Don’t you, Thomas.”
Ray realizes Thomas is crying. His frail, shaking hand reaches for the fork so slowly that Ray has time to pick out all of the valleys of veins and tendons, note the ischemic finger tips, the hangnails marring each cuticle.
Blessedly, Thomas picks up the fork and eats the plate clean.