Work Text:
There are times when greens are found in Vincent's pockets. How he has managed not to get his robes stained, he cannot say. Vincent seems to be the careful sort, or perhaps cleanliness is simply part of the papal package for a man too sacred to be stained; it may be that grand miracles are small ones stacked over time.
Innocent is meant to lead by example, but he finds himself following Vincent instead. He finds himself stuffing his pockets with cucumber slices one day. He finds himself arriving at the garden with a sense of purpose. He finds himself unwrapping moist tissue paper.
The summer heat hasn’t been friendly to neither man nor beast, and the last thing the terrapins want are cucumber pieces paired with paper pulp.
("Apparently they are called terrapins," Vincent told him some time ago. "They are turtles, yes, but I like to believe we can all stand to be more precise."
Contrition and child-like wonder coalesced behind Vincent's hazel eyes as he appraised the terrapins; some were buoyant in cool water, some were indolent on their stone perches. "I am sorry for the mistake," he murmured softly, "they will be seen as they are from now on."
Yes. Whyever would he not serve a man who'd wholeheartedly apologise to terrapins?
"I'm sure they appreciate it," was his comment. There was nothing else to say when his silence served as a space between contemplation and devotion.)
Their repertoire expands. Cucumber slices or some fruit or vegetable will come with whatever meat slices they pilfer from their meals. It becomes a game of who can smuggle the most without dirtying their habits with oil and innocent sin. They sate the terrapins first and then the cats that come by to appreciate their offerings, meagre they may be.
Vincent wonders if the birds can also have their fill one day. His eyes glow with wonderment when he is handed a bag of seeds. The glow grows bright when he is told that people will fetch anything for him if he asks nicely, then it dims when he is reminded of how he cannot fetch things for himself and roam as freely.
(He wishes more people could see just how human innocence can be.)
The information spreads like wildfire through some kind of urban wildlife network, resulting in dogs having a gander on what sort of meat slices Innocent has to offer for the day. Of course, this also results in reports from concerned parties. It's a health hazard, says one voice. It's unprofessional, says another. There cannot be stains on Innocent—on his robes in the shape of dirt, on his body in the shape of diseases, on his mind in the shape of disorders.
Funny how Innocent finds a straight path towards God among stray animals.
"I'll ease up on the feeding," Vincent concedes with a sigh. He bounces back with a wry and weary smile. "But not by much. Just enough to not let too many gather at a time."
Of course. Vincent would not back down without a fight. He finds himself unable to hold back a laugh. "We can work with that," he reassures him. His mind and heart both race at the thought of finding loopholes, at the thought of potentially striking a balance between placating those perplexed by the pope's peculiar piety and the animals they tend to, at the thought of serving and doing it well. This, too, is holy work.
He grins at the thought of Vincent delivering homilies to a congregation of carefree creatures. "Do I have to reschedule your appointments so you can hold a different kind of mass?"
"They'll always have a place here," Vincent answers as he dusts his knees, "and perhaps I need a new audience. Fresh air may do me good."
He sees Vincent's gaze move upwards towards the afternoon sky. The clear blue has made way for a bright orange that scatters through thick clouds. He follows his gaze and notes that the clouds may bring rain tonight.
"It's getting late," he points out, a gesture that may just be as pointless as saying that the sun will set westward.
Vincent gives him a small smile and nods. "I will continue to hold mass," he promises, "the 'different kind', like you said. I'd like to remind them that they'll always have a place under His grace."
"Of course you will," he comments with a soft chuckle and slight head shake. It dawns on him that Vincent's will is just as innocent and immovable as the setting sun.