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Chapter Text

They teach you to look for threats in basic training. How to scan crowds, picking through each section for anomalies. Someone moving against the flow, lingering too long, sweating too much. People have tells, and Andreas likes to think that he can read a room with a deftness that he never had with books, where words seemed to swim on pages and letters rearranged themselves when he wasn’t looking. But people? People are different. The way shoulders wilt with shame, how voices get just a shade too bright when nervous, eyes darting towards the exit before trouble starts. This is Andreas’s language, written in gesture and breath and the space between what people say and what they mean.

And when something goes wrong? (It hasn’t gone wrong in his six-and-a-half years of service to the Holy See, mind you, though that doesn’t mean he goes without reciting a silent Pater Noster before each apostolic assignment). In moments of adrenaline, your body learns to be a shield before your mind does. To position yourself between danger and your charge. Acriter et Fideliter. To serve is a privilege. To die is an honor.

Pope Innocentius XIV may send him to an early grave.

The Holy Father, for all of his kindness and patience, has a predilection for defying protocol. Holy Father, we really must insist that you do not eat home baked biscotti given to you by children, Commander Müller would say, a hint of consternation coloring his voice. Or, Holy Father, please, we ask that you limit your time with the faithful to the scheduled fifteen minutes. His Holiness would demur, naturally, but it was clear that his concern for safety began and ended with the service to his people.

But on days when the Pope resided within the Apostolic Palace? His routine fell into predictable patterns. Metronomic. It had taken no small amount of convincing from the Swiss Guard to persuade the new Pontiff to take up residence in the more secure papal apartments, as recent threats had made his preferred quarters at Casa Santa Marta untenable. It was an arrangement that the Pope had accepted with reluctance, and not for his own well being, but to placate the fretting of the Curia. He was an austere man, this Pope, one who still shied from the more ostentatious displays of his position as heir to the throne of Saint Peter.

At half past six each morning, his assigned sergeants would pull open the dense walnut doors to the apartments, their well-worn hinges groaning in protest, and the Pontiff would emerge, stepping out in his black Converse (a man of the people, truly), his white wool cassock rippling with each delicate movement, matching zucchetto perched on dark hair. He would turn to each of his two guards, stationed at either side of the entrance, and greet them with a gentle buongiorno, (and always by name) then set off at a comfortable pace through to the adjacent courtyard where morning air carried the scent of dew-damp stone and blooming perennials, toward Casa Santa Marta.

Klaus, a fellow sergeant, fell into step beside Andreas, a few paces behind the Holy Father. Years of shared assignments had refined their rhythm, and Klaus moved to the left, as was his custom, while Andreas took the right. Palm fronds from Sunday's celebration still adorned some of the doorways, curling against the humid air. The groundskeepers, intent on missing the midday sun, had already begun preparing the outdoor spaces for the Easter celebrations expected later in the week.

His Holiness paused when he came upon one of the elderly gardeners tending to the grounds, his face warming as he complimented the man on his handiwork in coaxing a shy set of blushing roses to climb up a wooden trellis.

Klaus halted a few paces away, his fingernails tapping against the radio at his hip, his eyes scanning the courtyard for other people, for other potential… delays. He touched his earpiece.

“Still proceeding to the chapel on schedule. Over.”

The gardener snipped through the base of the flower. A clean cut. He offered the bloom to the Pope with a smile, shy. The Holy Father accepted the rose with care, grasping the stem at a point where the pinpricks of thorns would not wound.

Klaus shifted his weight. He tilted his wrist just so to glance at his watch. Tapped the edge of his radio.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Andreas exhaled. This compulsive need to check and double-check had probably kept them both alive, but “I think we’re fine on time.”

Klaus stopped tapping. Straightened. When he turned to Andreas, his eyes narrowed against more than just the rising morning sun. 

“Müller will ream us out if we’re late.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, resuming his walk. “You should have seen him after what happened yesterday.”

Andreas followed, throwing him a sidelong glance. “I’m assuming it wasn’t just another tourist wandering into a restricted area.”

“No, but that did happen the day after you left. Hope the coast was good. Almalfi, right? First time there?” 

Andreas nodded, looking back at the Pope. “First time seeing the ocean.”

Klaus raised an eyebrow. “You never forget your first time.”

Andreas gave a noncommittal shrug, but his eyes lingered on the rose in the Pope’s hand. “Didn’t expect it to feel so big. So what set Müller off yesterday?”

Klaus checked on the Pope’s position, a quick professional sweep, then moved closer to Andreas until their shoulders nearly touched, lowering his voice to the space between them.

"The Holy Father disappeared.”

Andreas missed a step. “He what?”

“Yeah, he went missing.” Klaus’s voice cut through the morning air. “Couldn’t find him. Never showed up for morning Mass.”

Andreas watched the Pope rise from examining the blooms, brushing flecks of damp soil from his white cassock. He turned back to Klaus. "Christ. Missing for how long? And no one thought to brief me once I got back?"

"You got in pretty late last night, and,” Klaus paused, muscles in his jaw working. “I think they’re still deciding who needs to know what."

Andreas stopped. “Okay, so how do you know about all this?”

“Müller asked me to handle the response after Martinas called it in. We checked his rooms— the entire apartment, and it was empty, no signs of a struggle. But the Pope was only gone for two hours, and I mean, look at him, he’s fine!”

Andreas watched Klaus’s eyes flit over to their charge, still speaking amicably to the gardener. 

“He’s fine, but Müller is having you report on our position every five minutes?”

Klaus winced. "Well, you should have seen Müller. He asked us, ‘—what do you mean he disappeared? Do you expect me to believe that the Holy Father climbed out of the window and scaled the Vatican walls himself?’"

Andreas watched as the Holy Father offered his gratitude toward the gardener while cradling the rose stem. Two different worlds, this panic Klaus described, and the serene figure before them.

He could never imagine him scaling walls.

Andreas followed the Pope’s farewell to the gardener. "So where was he?”

"Stuck in the private papal elevators. Some sort of mechanical failure, and a broken call button."

"Oh. Was he hurt? Distressed?" Andreas paused, studying Klaus's face.

Klaus's silence stretched too long. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter.

"Klaus."

“No,” Klaus pulled a face then, fussing with his watch. "But Cardinal Lawrence was with him."

Andreas blinked. The Dean of the College of Cardinals?

The Holy Father turned to them then, a slight tilt of his head. Both sergeants straightened. A smile, the smallest nod, and he continued on. Klaus and Andreas fell back into step, but Klaus’s stride was shorter now, clipped, as if his body were still braced for an impending crisis.

“So he was gone for at least two hours…do you know when they actually got trapped?”

Klaus sighed. "No. They haven’t shared the full timeline with any of us. But hey," Klaus said, leaning close enough that his shoulder bumped Andreas, "When we found them, Lawrence could barely look at anyone. And the Pope seemed..." He struggled to find the word. "Dazed. Just out of it."

Andreas frowned. "Dazed how?"

Klaus scanned the courtyard before he drew closer, words dropping to a whisper.

"When they came out, they were—“

“Holy Father!”

The three turned to find Monsignor O’Malley weaving through the courtyard, breathless, a folder of documents tucked under his arm, papers threatening to spill from its edges.

"Good morning! Just a quick note on the Vigil schedule, if I may.”

As O'Malley drew the Pope into conversation, Andreas guided Klaus away with a hand on his arm.

"Let's talk after Mass," Andreas offered, “we’ll have a moment later.”

Klaus nodded, but Andreas caught him glancing back toward the Pope and O’Malley, afraid someone might overhear even their silence.

The details followed Andreas as they walked. Two hours. Step. Trapped. Step. Dazed. Step. A rhythm that matched their movement. They arrived (on schedule, to the visible relief of Klaus) at a quarter to seven. There would be no verbal reprimands from Commander Müller about a missing Pontiff today.

The chapel's triangular peaks cut angles against the clear morning sky. The scent of the delicate lilies placed at the entrance curled through the courtyard, preparations for Easter that would transform the Vatican in days to come. Andreas moved ahead first, already reaching for the door handle. Klaus positioned himself to scan the small but growing congregation of Vatican staff and visiting clergy, while Andreas pulled the door open and stepped aside with a slight bow for the Pontiff and the Monsignor to pass through.

The Pope stopped at the foot of the modest shrine to the Madonna and Child, cradling the rose between his steepled hands, head bowed in prayer before placing it at the mother’s feet. He made a sign of the cross and then moved toward the vestment chest to prepare for the morning’s service while O'Malley found his seat within the congregation.

And then Cardinal Lawrence arrived.

Instead of taking his usual seat in the front row, often filled with other visiting Cardinals and members of the Curia, the Dean halted in the aisle. His gaze found his familiar place among his peers, lingered there, hesitating, then turned away. He walked toward the furthest corner, closest to the door. His black cassock rustled in the hushed space as he sank into his seat, shoulders curved inward like a penitent, eyes fixed on his fingers clasped tight in his lap.

At precisely seven o'clock, the congregation rose as one body, and His Holiness emerged from the sacristy. His head bowed in communion, hands folded in prayer, draped in violet and gold vestments that caught the morning light. A concelebrant and two seminarians followed in silence. The Pope’s movements, while reverent as always, carried a quiet but inspired lightness that hummed beneath his serene exterior.

He ascended to the altar and turned to his flock, scanning the many faces in the front rows. Of the liturgists, the secretariat, the head of the papal household. Indispensable mechanisms that kept the ancient wheel of the Holy See moving. But when his gaze reached the back and found the lone, lean figure of Cardinal Lawrence, a smile bloomed across his features.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”

Andreas let his attention drift across the gathered faithful, of faces softened by light filtering through the glass wall. But his focus kept returning to Cardinal Lawrence, who sat rigid in his corner seat, fingers worrying the fabric at his lap.

When the final reading dissolved into silence, the Pope rose from his chair, stepping toward his flock, hands clasped in front of him.

"Today's Gospel," he began, his words carrying with ease through the hushed, intimate space, "tells us of a woman who came to Jesus with an alabaster jar of precious ointment. The disciples were scandalized by her extravagance, calling it waste."

The Holy Father paused, gaze drifting toward the back of the chapel. "But Jesus saw something different."

Lawrence didn’t stir. A taut wire.

"'She has done a beautiful thing to me,' our Lord tells them. Not shameful, not excessive, and not inappropriate. But beautiful. Divine." The Pope's voice grew quieter, more contemplative. “The disciples called it waste because they couldn't see what Christ saw. That love, when genuine, sanctifies even what others would condemn."

"This morning I found myself thinking of the mystics who understood this radical acceptance. Saint Teresa, Saint John of the Cross. They wrote of being 'ravished' by divine love, of being completely overwhelmed by a single glance of divine recognition."

The Pope walked a few steps, his tone growing more contemplative.

"Sometimes revelation comes when we least expect it, at times when we feel trapped. But they understood that true love, whether human or divine, has the power to bring us closer to God."

Andreas saw the Pope look over at Lawrence in the back corner. Lawrence kept his head turned away, eyes fixed to the side, as if the adjacent stone of the Leonine Wall could provide reprieve.

"There's a verse from the Song of Songs that speaks to this. 'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.' The Church Fathers taught us to read these words as Christ speaking to each of our souls. But I think we often forget that love requires recognition. Understanding. Really seeing someone, and being seen in return."

"Grace can find us in the most unexpected places, in moments when we have nowhere to run, when all of our defenses fall away."

Several congregants leaned forward, drawn in by the intimate tone.

“My brothers and sisters, as we continue in our celebration of Holy Week, we must remember that our Lord sees us this way. Completely. Without judgment. And sometimes he allows us to see each other the same way."

The Pope paused. Blinking, caught off-guard by his own words. No, Andreas realized, retreating from whatever precipice he'd approached. The Pope's gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before he looked back at the congregation. A timid request in his gaze.

"Let us pray that we have the courage to accept such recognition when it comes to us."

———

When the time came to receive communion, the congregation rose, forming in quiet procession toward the altar. But Andreas kept his attention pinned to Lawrence, who remained seated a beat too long before rising to join the line.

As the final prayers concluded, and the recessional music came to a crescendo, Lawrence rose with such haste that the scrape of his chair against marble cut through the chapel's hush, sharp enough to turn Klaus's head.

Klaus leaned in, his voice barely audible. “He didn’t look great yesterday when those doors opened. He looks worse now.”

Andreas had to agree. “What exactly did you see when those elevator doors opened?” Andreas asked, not taking his eyes off Lawrence.

"A complication."

Andreas turned to Klaus, frowning. Before he could ask what Klaus meant, a familiar voice rang out.

"Thomas!"

Monsignor O'Malley intercepted Cardinal Lawrence near the doorway as Mass ended.

“The schematics for Friday’s procession are ready, if you’d—“ O’Malley stopped then, taking a closer look at his old friend and colleague. “Thomas, you look terrible. When’s the last time you slept?”

Lawrence's knuckles whitened where they gripped his breviary, the fine leather binding flaking and falling under the pressure.

"I sleep fine."

"In your office chair doesn’t count. Aldo said you haven’t been at Vespers."

“And Aldo talks too much.”

O'Malley took a step towards his friend. "I could have Janusz cover the security meeting. The agenda's simple enough."

"Ray, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Cardinal Lawrence!" The Pope's voice carried across the intimate space, bright with the afterglow of prayer.

Lawrence's shoulders cinched inward as the Holy Father’s footsteps cut off his path to the door.

"Monsignor, how good to see you again.” The Pontiff joined their small circle.

"Beautiful homily, truly moving." O'Malley's face brightened with genuine admiration. "I was just telling the Cardinal he looks rather peaked."

The Holy Father shifted his gaze to the Cardinal, eyes softening further, and a gentle, teasing reproach coloring his voice.

“Our Dean has been shouldering the cross of this week for us all, even if it comes at the expense of his sleep—” His hand moved with a natural grace, fingers extending to graze Lawrence's arm.

Lawrence stepped away from his touch.

Andreas watched the Pope pull back. Surprise, then pain, colored his features, a frown in his eyes before he could control it.

"Your Eminence?"

“I—” Lawrence’s voice caught. He blinked. “Forgive me, I need to get to the Secretariat’s office. Aldo’s expecting me.”

He cut past O’Malley and toward the door, his gaze cast low to the alabaster floor, the quiet dignity of his office forgotten.

The Pope stood frozen, arrested, his hand extended in the empty air. In the space between one breath and the next, before the approaching parishioners could reclaim his attention, Andreas saw the Pope's mouth slightly parted, as if to call after Lawrence, his gaze fixed on the doorway.

The look of someone who had offered something precious and watched it fall.

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The formal ceremony had concluded, and with it, the fragile pretense of decorum. Almost.

For a second time this morning, Andreas witnessed a communion of men. A few concelebrants remained, gathering under the expanse of the sacristy as they waited for their fellow fratelli. Unburdened of their chasubles and stoles, the clergy drifted toward one another, their voices a murmur of half-formed plans. Now and then, a hand clasped a shoulder, or faces leaned close in confidence. Andreas caught fragments—a trattoria near the Tiber, yes, excellent wine…old friends, they just arrived from Milan…let’s catch up before the week carries us off.

Monsignor O’Malley conferred with a sacristan over a portfolio of notes while Monsignor Mandorff hovered near the doorway, listening and nodding. Opposite them, Andreas and Klaus stood a few paces apart. Alert. Together, they observed the clergy spill out in twos and threes into the adjoining corridor, eager to delight in the offerings of the secular world beyond.

The Pope stood apart at the far side of the chamber. His vestments, the color of eggshell, the last to be unpinned by his acolytes. They moved in silence around their Holy Father, working with an obeisance that did not allow their eyes to meet his. They spoke in gestures, and only to each other, as though words might profane the sacred duty entrusted to them.

Andreas noticed as the Pope’s gaze swept to the far side of the chamber and settled on Cardinal Lawrence. The Cardinal, unaware of the Holy Father’s attention, stood off-center, near the wall, removing the last of his vestments.

The acolytes finished, stepping back in unison, heads bowed, awaiting dismissal. Not one looked at the Holy Father’s face. The Pope thanked each in turn, but they only responded with deeper genuflections, eyes on the marble floor. The Holy Father gave a final nod of dismissal, and with the yoke of his chasuble gone, he adjusted his zucchetto and strode toward the Dean.

“Your Eminence,” the Holy Father called out, his voice carrying across the chamber, “Your homily this morning—may we speak of it in private?”

The Cardinal’s eyes, a deep blue, held the Pope’s for a breath, then returned to his vestments, draping the last robe onto its hanger. “I believe I made my position clear. And we have additional preparations to complete before this evening.”

The Pope reached for Lawrence’s arm, fingers brushing the sleeve of his black cassock. “Tomás, please, I need to understand—”

Lawrence’s shoulders stiffened. A line drawn in air.

“There’s nothing else to understand, Your Holiness.” Lawrence stepped back. He drew his arm to his side, the Pope’s touch falling away. “We have our duties. Each of us.”

The Pope’s eyes widened, struck.

Another voice cut across the moment.

“Thomas, Your Holiness, apologies, but we need your final approval on tomorrow’s order of service,” said Ray, looking toward Cardinal Lawrence. “Willi mentioned your revisions affect the processional, and he’s waiting on your guidance.” Ray inclined his head toward Mandorff, still at the door, pointing to a paper and discussing it with a sacristan.

“Yes, thank you, Ray.” Lawrence extricated himself from the Pope’s reach and smoothed his cassock.

The Holy Father stepped forward, lips parting as if to call after Lawrence, another word that might have bridged the growing distance between them. But the Cardinal had already gone.

The Pope’s shoulders slumped, a momentary, silent collapse of posture. Diminished. His eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the tessellations of fractured marble beneath his worn Converse. One of the laces had already begun to fray. He took a breath. And another. In that small space of quiet, he worried the wooden beads of the rosary at his side. The contemplation of his sorrow broken by the reverberation of a distant door slamming shut. He looked up. With eyes set in resolve, he strode ahead, past the ingress, past the guards themselves. Andreas caught Klaus’s eye. They could not carry the burden of the Holy Father’s cross, but no matter his intentions, they would follow.

—

The annex stretched through arches and colonnades, corridors folding back on themselves, each turn revealing another doorway, another hum of voices. Light muzzled by cloudspun skies filtered through the high windows. It pooled across the checkered marble, catching on brass nameplates and polished wood. A door here and there stood open to let in a breath of spring air, yet others remained ajar, muted conversations drifting out. Preparations for tomorrow’s liturgy, adjustments to the processional timing for the Via Crucis. A note of worry toward the weather.

Andreas trailed behind the Holy Father, with Klaus just to his right. The building itself seemed to have machinations to funnel him into tighter and tighter cloisters, each one narrower than the last, winding and twisting him toward some shallow semblance of reprieve.

A door creaked on shrill hinges just ahead. Cardinal Bellini, with a well-worn book in hand, turned to lock it behind him. The Pope’s shoulders shifted, a fraction of the tension in his back giving way. He walked through a final gallery, threaded past a loggia overlooking a courtyard filled with palm fronds, eyes fixed on Bellini.

“Aldo! May we speak for a moment?”

Bellini straightened, adjusting his glasses. “Yes, please come into my office—”

“I find I think more clearly in the open air,” the Holy Father said, gesturing toward the courtyard.

Bellini’s eyes flicked toward Andreas and Klaus, just long enough to register their presence before returning to the Pope. He adjusted his glasses. “Of course, Your Holiness.”

Andreas and Klaus exchanged glances as they fell into step behind the two men, maintaining a respectful distance.

The Pope started tentative, slow. “My inexperience in Curial matters isn’t lost on me. You know better than most the weight and responsibility of these offices we hold, the proximity to decisions that affect the Church. I—” He pursed his lips, gathering himself. “I am concerned about Thomas. His behavior this week has been troubling.”

Bellini nodded in acknowledgment. “Holy Week is always taxing,” Bellini said, “but this year seems complicated, compared to years past.”

The Holy father glanced at him. “Complicated?”

“The Curia has noticed certain tensions.” Bellini’s tone remained mild. “Nothing scandalous, mind you. But a shift in dynamics, between yourself and the Dean.”

The Pope’s momentum stalled. “Have they.”

“They have eyes, Your Holiness. And unfortunately, they also have tongues.” Bellini adjusted his glasses. “The aftermath is becoming visible enough that it requires management.”

The Holy Father stilled. “I see.”

“Do you?” Bellini’s tone remained firm. “I know it’s not fair, but perception is everything, and the Curia is watching. Right now, they see something between you and Thomas. Some will call it favoritism. Others will invent worse.”

“But Thomas won’t even speak to me,” The Holy Father said, his voice carrying a note of desperation Andreas hadn’t heard before. Fragile. “I’ve been trying since yesterday, and he won’t even look at me. Aldo, I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

Bellini’s expression grew careful.

“Your Holiness…” The Cardinal sighed, eyes dropping to the clothbound book he held, fingertips brushing over the embossed title. St. John of the Cross. “Thomas came to see me. But I can’t share what we discussed.”

The Pope nodded, understanding the implication.

“I’m not asking you to break confidence. But we fell out of step, somewhere. Yesterday at the meeting, what he said—” The Pope’s voice caught. “And this morning’s homily. He’s in pain, and I don’t understand why he won’t let me help.”

Their feet reached the rim of a fountain. Circular and low, so low that a single misstep would send them spilling into the water. A shy burble disturbed the surface, backbrushed by flecks of light and sky.

Cardinal Bellini studied the Holy Father. Bespectacled eyes, not unkind, but shrewd in a way that Andreas associated with the men of the Curia, stared back. They did not flinch from the Pope’s plea, no, nor did they soften. They held steady, a mental arithmetic between duty and discretion playing out.

“What do you think happened?”

“I thought—” The Pope stopped, uncertain. “We’ve grown close these past months. And I thought, perhaps, that this closeness was mutual.”

Bellini’s eyes softened a fraction. He nodded once, sight settling on the water’s blue, following the droplets that slipped over fountain’s edge, into the runnels below. “Thomas has always been… difficult with himself. Even at seminary, he set standards no person could meet.”

The Holy Father tilted his head, hesitant. “What do you mean?”

Andreas watched Bellini remove his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose. “He would fast until he fainted, shower with hot water to the point of scalding his skin. The rest of us learned to live with our imperfections, but Thomas? His scruples never allowed him that mercy.”

For a moment, the Pope seemed almost thoughtful, his gaze following the ripples of water spread across the fountain’s well. Each broke and met and spread in widening circles, fragile patterns that vanished as soon as they formed.

“But that was years ago.” His tone carried more hope than certainty.

Bellini did not answer.

The water’s surface quivered under a passing breeze, unraveling, scattering the fragile ripples. His face drained of color, faltering.

“Dear God,” he whispered, voice raw.

The Holy Father lifted his gaze from the fountain, uncertain, lost in the terrible implications of this revelation. He started forward, each step tentative, with Bellini falling into step beside him, matching the rhythm of a man carrying too much at once.

“Thomas sees saints where others see people,” Bellini continued. “He’s never learned to forgive himself for being human. The closer someone is to what he considers sacred, the more dangerous he believes his own humanity becomes.”

The Holy Father stopped, abrupt. Andreas nearly collided with Klaus's wiry frame as they both halted, watching the Pope stand in the middle of the walkway.

“How do I reach him then?” The Pope’s voice carried a note of desperation. “Because I can’t just abandon him like this. There has to be something I can do.”

Bellini turned to face him, apprehension written across his features. “You show up. You stay consistent. You let him know you’re there, that you care, that you’ll listen without judgment.” His voice grew pained. “I cannot excuse his unreasonable behavior toward you. You’ve been more patient than most. But he does care, deeply, perhaps too much sometimes. In his own way.”

The Holy Father’s shoulders sagged. “And if he pulls away for good?”

Andreas could hear the distant splash of the fountain, the rustle of wind through the palm leaves. A door opening, slamming shut, from the Curia’s office beyond. Voices, a distant conversation. Laughter. A lone swallow, calling for its mate.

“Then you let him go,” Bellini said, “and pray he finds the mercy he cannot yet give himself. That is all any of us can do.”

-

Hours later, evening’s air cooled. Rest period over, they left the barracks behind, passing in the shadow of the Tower of Nicholas V.

“Drivers should already be at St. Damaso,” Klaus said, checking his watch just ahead of them, his dark jacket catching the breeze. “We’ve got twenty minutes.”

Andreas walked alongside the other sergeants, hands in his pockets, eyes already scanning their route. They each wore variations of the same plainclothes—dark trousers, button-down shirts, a light jacket. Understated attire meant to maintain a low profile during pastoral visits. Tadeo’s jacket hung open, while Martinas kept tugging at his collar. To any passerby, they could be senior Vatican aides, or diplomatic staff. Only the earpiece connected to his DP 3441 radio and the weight of a Glock 19 beneath his jacket reminded him this wasn’t, in fact, a casual stroll with friends.

“So Will,” Martinas said, turning to the taller sergeant beside him, “how’s the fencing coming along?”

Will beamed. Quiet, stoic, no-nonsense, Will Lüscher actually beamed. “Really great. Beatrice and I have been practicing our advances and retreats.”

“Oh, Beatrice.” Tadeo grinned. “You letting her score on you?”

“She earns those touches,” Will said with a slight smile.

“I bet she does.”

“He’s gone,” Klaus called back to the others. “Completely gone.”

Will shrugged, not denying it. “Guilty.”

They passed through an archway, entering the ground-level corridors of the Apostolic Palace. The air changed, cooler now, carrying the scent of old stone and polished marble.

“So the club, it’s near the Gregorian?” Martinas asked, fumbling with his jacket zipper.

“Yeah it’s by her school. Though the whites are such a pain to wash.” Will paused, running a hand through his sand-colored hair. “But it’s worth it. Even when she kicks my ass. Which is often.”

Andreas stopped. White. The word snagged in his mind.

“Well at least if she actually stabs you, you know how to patch yourself up—”

“Did any of you notice someone in white at Chrism Mass?” Andreas asked. “In the seventh row? Just standing there while everyone else was seated?”

“Well that narrows it down,” Tadeo said. “They were all wearing white for the ceremony.”

Klaus sighed. “You saw a priest in white robes acting weird at a Mass full of priests in white robes.”

“It was different,” Andreas insisted. “They—he, was staring right at me. Not moving. Then I looked away for maybe two seconds and he was just… gone.”

Martinas frowned. “You think it’s connected to the thing from Tuesday?”

Tadeo shot him a warning look.

“What happened on Tuesday?” asked Will.

“I know how it sounds—”

“It sounds like you’re seeing patterns everywhere.” Klaus’s voice cut through. “You’ve been doing it since you got back.”

Andreas’s jaw tightened. “Maybe. But what if I’m not?”

“Then you report it,” Tadeo said, his voice firm. “Through proper channels like we discussed.”

“I did report it—”

“And now you let the Gendarmerie handle it.” Tadeo stopped, forcing the others to halt with him. He fixed Andreas with a look, his eyes grey, stern, the color of steel and flint.

“Our job tonight is to watch the Pope’s back at Sant’Egidio. That’s it. Can you do that?”

Andreas exhaled through his nose, looking past Tadeo's shoulder, out toward the corridor. Then at his own oxfords. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Good.” Tadeo resumed walking. Then, he let out a sigh, rolling his eyes in frustration. “Will, we’ll brief you on the other thing later. For now, just stay sharp.”

They turned a corner, the administrative wing stretching ahead. As they passed, a door stood ajar, harsh light spilling into the corridor.

“—the one I prepared last year, before the late Holy Father’s passing.”

Lawrence’s voice.

“Thomas,” Ray’s voice carried through the gap of the door. “Is everything all right?”

He could hear the shuffling of paper.

“We’ll see, Ray. Just make sure it’s there by tonight.”

They kept walking, past the colonnades, footsteps on marble. The words circled in his mind, something prepared before the last Pope died, now needed tonight. Andreas filed it away with everything else that didn’t quite fit.

St. Damaso’s courtyard opened up before them. The surrounding loggias glowed with interior light, arched windows stacked three stories high. Three black vehicles sat in formation on the dark cobblestones, engines idling, drivers from the motor pool standing at attention beside open doors. Waiting for the Holy Father and the rest of his entourage to arrive. They moved to their positions without discussion. Andreas approached the middle vehicle, nodding to the driver, a man in his forties he’d worked with before, competent and discreet. Tadeo and Martinas headed for the lead car. Klaus and Will moved toward the trail.

The Holy Father emerged from the palace entrance first, white cassock catching the light from the loggias, flanked by two sergeants from the previous shift. They nodded to Andreas and his other colleagues at the ready, handing off their charge to his next engagement.

Behind him came the evening’s entourage. Cardinal Lawrence, several visiting members of the clergy, and a Vatican coordinator. The supporting staff moved toward the trail vehicle, with the clergy heading for the lead car.

After the day’s tensions, Andreas couldn’t be certain what to expect anymore. But when Lawrence followed one of the bishops toward the lead vehicle instead of taking his usual place beside the Pope, the message was unmistakable.

“Your Eminence?” The Pope called out.

Lawrence turned, but kept his gaze averted from meeting the Pope’s eyes. “I’ll ride with the advance party, Holy Father. I need to review the evening’s agenda with Bishop Torrini before we arrive.” Lawrence climbed into the back seat of the lead vehicle, and the driver closed the door with a decisive click.

The Pope didn’t move, brow furrowed, his hand reaching for the rosary at his side, still staring at the lead vehicle where Lawrence sat. The driver opened the papal car’s rear door. “Your Holiness?”

The Holy Father turned to the driver, dipping his head in thanks, and climbed inside.

Andreas made a decision, then. Instead of taking the front passenger seat, he circled to the other rear door and slid in beside the Holy Father.

The Pope looked up, a little surprised, then gave a nod, the side of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile.

They pulled out of the courtyard, the three vehicles advancing through the Vatican’s interior routes toward the gates that led into Rome.

—

The convoy wound through Trastevere’s narrow cobblestone streets as evening deepened over Rome. Andreas sat beside the Holy Father in the back of the papal vehicle, the world outside muted through tinted, bulletproof glass. Tourist cafes gave way to residential blocks, the Vatican’s pristine marble far behind them, replaced by weathered ochre and rose-colored walls that seemed to glow in the fading light. Outside passing restaurants, waitstaff carried out wrought iron chairs, arranging tables for patrons to enjoy evening aperitifs al fresco.

“I’ve been Pope for a few months now.”

Andreas turned to regard him. The Holy Father’s hands rested on his lap, rosary threaded between his fingers, his gaze directed out the window, as though the words had been meant for the streets themselves, rather than his guard.

When the Holy Father looked at him, the changes showed. The Pope’s hair, long, longer even than that of many of the younger guards back at the barracks, had picked up more silver since his election. Those eyes, which Andreas would categorize as kind, had dimmed, holding a weariness that had only deepened since he’d first accepted the fisherman’s ring. That cautious, hopeful smile that dazzled millions from the central loggia at St. Peter’s square on that cold November day, had set itself into a firm line. A slight downturn. He carried the grace and dignity of his office well, but not without effort.

“What do you think of the job I’m doing?”

“I’m…” Andreas stammered, caught off-guard. He’d never been asked such a thing by his previous charge. “I’m very happy with your work, Your Holiness.”

The words came out reflexive. Professional, even. Safe.

The Holy Father nodded, offering a wan smile. He turned back to the window.

It was a true answer. Why, then, did Andreas feel like he had said the wrong thing?

“Eyes up,” Tadeo’s voice crackled through his earpieces from the lead vehicle. “Civilian foot traffic around the church.”

Through the front windshield, between the driver and front passenger seat, Andreas caught sight of Sant’Egidio’s pale facade emerging from the maze of narrow streets. Evening light caught the weathered stone. The surrounding buildings glowed warm against the deepening sky, laundry lines still strung between windows.

As their vehicle slowed, Andreas leaned forward, conducting a visual sweep. Instead of tourists with cameras, small groups of people clustered on the church steps and around the square. Some wrapped in worn coats despite the mild evening, others carrying plastic bags or small backpacks. A few children clung to their mothers’ hands. Near the church entrance, a bronze figure lay stretched across a bench, wrapped in what appeared to be a tattered blanket, a sculpture with only the visible wounds on his feet revealing the sacred identity.

The papal vehicle drew up before the church doors, settling behind the lead car that had come ahead to clear the way.

Andreas touched his earpiece. “Status report?”

“Perimeter secure,” Martinas answered over the radio, from his position near the church steps.

Andreas gave a curt nod, exiting, and circled around to the other side of the car, opening the Holy Father’s door. The Holy Father stepped out, shoulders loosening as his gaze lit on the sanctuary before him. He adjusted his white zucchetto, offered Andreas a quiet thank you, and made his way toward the modest entrance.

Warm light spilled from the church’s open doors. he Pope paused at the threshold, one hand still resting on the metal railing. A woman in her fifties, perhaps a volunteer, extended her hand with a warm smile, and the Holy Father took it without hesitation.

“Holy Father,” the woman inclined her head. “Welcome to our community.”

“Thank you, Teresa. The pleasure is mine entirely.”

Andreas followed the Pope inside, scanning the space on reflex. Tadeo had positioned himself at the far wall and gave Andreas a nod as he entered. Martinas had taken a spot near the side entrance, maintaining visual contact with both the main door and the kitchen area. Volunteers from Sant’Egidio moved between folding tables, placing crisp linens and setting silverware for the evening meal. Cardinal Lawrence stood with several clergy from both the Vatican and the parish, their quiet conversation pausing when they noticed the Pope. Meanwhile, children darted under the tables, giggling as they played makeshift tag.

One of the clergy members, a younger bishop, stepped forward, extending his hand in greeting. “Your Holiness, we are deeply honored by your presence during this most sacred week.”

The Holy Father clasped his hand. “The honor is mine, Bishop Esposito. Cardinal Lawrence has often spoken to me of your community.”

The Pope’s attention shifted past the bishop to where Lawrence stood with the other clergy. Their eyes met. Lawrence inclined his head, a minute gesture, and looked away.

“Your mission here truly speaks to the heart of our calling,” the Pope said, his attention returning to the bishop, though his voice had quieted.

Bishop Esposito, oblivious to the tension between the Holy Father and his Dean, brightened. “Thank you, Holy Father! We’ve prepared a small reception, nothing elaborate— just wine and some remarks. Several of our board members are hoping to meet you, and we thought perhaps Cardinal Lawrence could say a few words about the community—”

As the bishop spoke, the Holy Father’s focus drifted toward the kitchen doorway. To the clatter of cooking utensils against pans, the sizzle of onions meeting oil, the low hum of conversation, voices rising and falling, punctuated by laughter and the camaraderie of service.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” the Pope’s voice interjected. “I find I’m most needed where the work is being done.”

Bishop Esposito froze mid-sentence, glancing back toward Cardinal Lawrence. Lawrence said nothing, his hands falling still at his sides as he watched the Pope walk toward the kitchen. Around them, the other clergy shifted, with one younger priest opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it again. After a moment's hesitation, they followed, forming an awkward cluster near the kitchen threshold.

The Holy Father peeked into the busy space, where the air wafted with the scent of garlic sautéing in olive oil and the rich aroma of simmering tomato sauce. Steam rose from large pots on the stove, and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables provided a steady percussion beneath the volunteers’ conversations, none yet aware of their distinguished visitor.

Mild shock crossed Bishop Esposito’s face. “Holy Father, you really don’t need to—”

“I have two good hands,” the Pope said, moving toward the sink to wash them. “Put me to work.”

As the Holy Father’s voice carried through the kitchen, heads began to turn. A young man stirring risotto nearly dropped his wooden spoon. One by one, the volunteers noticed the white cassock and zucchetto. Several began to genuflect.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt. Pretend I’m not here.” The Pope smiled as Teresa offered him a simple blue apron. The Pope accepted it, tying it around his waist over his white cassock.

An older bishop, pushing ninety, if Andreas was being generous with his estimation, made his way forward with slow but determined steps, one gnarled hand steadying himself against the doorframe.

“Bishop Emeritus—” Esposito began, alarmed.

But the elder bishop had already crossed the threshold, moving toward the carving station. His hands trembled as he reached for the knives, his face alight with purpose.

Teresa intercepted him, offering her arm. “Bishop Emeritus, Sister Elena is setting up the wash area. She could use your help there.”

She guided him past the cutting boards to a corner sink where a severe-looking woman arranged dish racks. Sister Elena pulled over a stool and set a tray of wine glasses before him. “These need drying, Eccellenza carissima, thank you.”

The elder bishop gave a near pout as he settled onto the stool.

Behind them, the rest of the visiting clergy lingered at the threshold, watching the Pope roll up his sleeves, watching the volunteers bustle about, but making no move to join in. Too stunned, it seemed, to participate.

The kitchen returned to its rhythm, though Andreas noticed several volunteers stealing glances at the Pope as he rolled up his sleeves to chop vegetables into neat little piles. Steam continued to rise from the pots, everyone working with renewed purpose, honored by his presence but trying to follow his directive to treat him as just another pair of helping hands. Andreas positioned himself near the kitchen entrance, while Will, having just arrived with Klaus, took a spot where he could observe the food preparation area. Both guards watched the Holy Father’s easy movements as he worked alongside the others. He seemed more relaxed than he'd been in days, shoulders loose as he diced carrots with surprising skill. Will eyed the paring knife with mild wariness, but said nothing. For several minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic chop of his knife and the gentle conversations around them. Then—

“—komak konid nan ra be miz biyavarid.”

The words came from somewhere behind Andreas, spoken by a young woman carrying a tray of bread. Andreas couldn’t place the language for a moment. It wasn’t Italian, not Arabic either.

The Pope’s head snapped up. He turned toward the voice, his face lighting with recognition, a smile breaking across his features.

“Man kami Dari balad hastam,” the Holy Father replied, his pronunciation careful but clear. “Shoma az koja hastid?”

The woman almost dropped her tray. Her eyes widened as she stared at the Pope, shocked to hear her native language from the Holy Father’s mouth. She responded, excitement evident in her voice even though Andreas couldn’t understand the words.

The Pope smiled, shy, and replied with words that made the woman laugh. Soon others had gathered—an older man with weathered hands, a teenager who’d been helping serve water. All speaking in the same melodic, unfamiliar language.

Andreas felt Will step close to his shoulder. “What language is that?”

“Dari,” Andreas murmured, though he couldn’t be certain, “from Afghanistan.” He’d heard it before, from the Pope’s Sunday calls to Kabul, speaking with the faithful of his former parish, yet the Holy Father’s fluency still surprised him.

The Holy Father came alive in a way Andreas hadn't seen since before the security meeting. His hands moved as he spoke, and when the older man made a remark that made the group chuckle, the Pope threw back his head and laughed. Genuine, unguarded joy that seemed to lift years from his face.

—

The long tables had filled with Sant’Egidio’s evening community. Afghan refugees sat beside elderly Romans, while a young mother from Syria found herself sharing bread with a Ukrainian family new to Rome. Volunteers had settled in alongside the residents, and the clergy too, joined the shared meal. The Pope had taken a seat near the middle of the longest table in the nave, not at the head as protocol would demand. Conversations flowed in multiple languages as the atmosphere quieted and people noticed him rise to his feet, hands resting on the table’s white linen.

“My friends,” the Pope began, his voice carrying through the makeshift dining hall. “As the Lord met with his disciples on this Holy Thursday, tonight we too gather not as strangers, but as family. We may come from different places, speak different languages, hold different beliefs, yet here we are, sharing this meal together.”

His gaze swept across the faces around the tables. Andreas noticed how the Pope’s eyes fell on the Afghan family he’d spoken with earlier, then on Cardinal Lawrence.

“In the tradition of my faith, we remember that service, shown on this day through sharing a meal and washing the feet of others, is love made visible. But I know that this call to serve one another, to care for the vulnerable, to welcome the stranger, exists in all our traditions. Tonight, in sharing this meal, in opening our hearts to one another, we live that universal calling.”

“We ask the Divine, or however you name the Sacred, to bless this food, prepared by many hands and offered with generous hearts. May each person here know that you are seen, you are valued, and you are beloved, exactly as you are.”

His gaze found Lawrence again. “May we find peace in one another’s presence, and mercy toward ourselves and our circumstances.”

The Pope made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” some of the attendees responded. Others bowed their heads in respect.

And as the blessing settled over the room, the evening meal began in earnest. Conversations resumed, steam continued rising from the serving trays. The Holy Father moved among them, white cassock smudged at the sleeve where he had helped serve plates. His hands ladled minestrone into bowls, filled glasses, and pressed food into waiting hands.

“And you too,” he said, turning to Andreas, who stood taut at his shoulder, gesturing to an empty chair beside him.

Andreas blinked, caught between duty to remain at the ready and obedience to his charge, but the Pope’s eyes brooked no refusal. With an awkward half-bow, Andreas lowered himself onto the chair, next to the parish clergy. Across the table, Klaus smirked, nudging a bowl of insalata mista toward him.

Andreas scanned the dining hall as he settled in. Tadeo near the entrance, Martinas and Will among the other diners. At the table, Bishop Esposito leaned toward a visiting priest, deep in conversation.

Bishop Emeritus (or Nonno Vicano, as Andreas had overheard the Sant’Egidio regulars call him) reached across the table, grabbed Esposito’s wine glass and downed it in one smooth motion. He set it back down, empty.

The younger bishop turned back, his eyes narrowing on his empty glass, and then on the Bishop Emeritus beside him. Nonno Vicano kept a straight face, nibbling on a piece of bread.

Bishop Esposito rolled his eyes and reached for the wine bottle to refill his glass.

A boy beside the Holy Father tugged at his sleeve, pointing at a basket of bread. He smiled and passed it to him, watching as the child selected a piece before sending the basket down the line. Then his eyes found the Cardinal, sitting at the furthest end of the table. Lawrence sat between a parish priest and one of the volunteers, both deep in their own conversation across him. In front of him sat nothing but a glass of water, untouched.

The Pope frowned. With a quiet word to the woman beside him, he rose, crossed to the serving table, and prepared a plate himself—ladling minestrone thick with vegetables, adding a piece of crusty bread still warm from the oven, a small portion of insalata mista, a drizzle of olive oil over everything. With care, as though setting an offering.

When he reached Cardinal Lawrence, the Pope set the plate before him. “I haven’t had the pleasure of sharing a meal with you in days,” he said. “Please. Eat.”

The Cardinal looked up, startled. For a moment he seemed about to protest, words pressed behind his lips. But the Pope’s gaze didn’t waver, warm and unyielding. At last Lawrence lowered his eyes, nodding, his hand closing around the spoon.

The Holy Father smiled, the lines around his eyes softening, and laid a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder, a brief touch, before returning to his place at the table.

—

After the meal, the Sant’Egidio volunteers rearranged twelve chairs into a semicircle in front of the altar. Beside the first chair sat a silver pitcher and matching basin.

Teresa, along with Sister Elena, invited community members forward. Each settled into their chairs. The room quieted as people turned their attention toward the altar. The Holy Father rose from his place at the table, moving toward where Teresa waited with the basin and pitcher.

Andreas watched from his position near the wall as the Pope knelt before the first person, the older Afghan man with whom he’d conversed in Dari. Years of toil had calloused the man’s feet, marked them with the evidence of hard living. Placing the basin underneath one foot, the Holy Father poured water over it with his other hand, washing it clean. He reached for the towel tucked at his side and dabbed the foot dry, then leaned down and kissed the top of the refugee’s foot.

“Tashakor,” the man whispered.

Nodding, the Pope replied with a phrase in Dari that made the man’s eyes tear up.

One by one, he moved down the row. An older Italian man gave a wobbly smile as the Holy Father dried his feet. A young mother down with gratitude as he washed the dust of Rome’s streets from her sole—while in the background, Sister Elena chased after the woman’s toddler, who’d escaped toward the kitchen with gleeful determination. A man from Somalia, just eighteen, stared in wonder as the Pontiff knelt before him.

He spoke to each person, sometimes in Italian, once in fluid Spanish, and when words failed, in gesture. The room had quieted except for these murmured conversations and the gentle splash of water against chased silver.

When the Holy Father finished with the last of the community members, a frail woman from Eritrea who blessed him in her native tongue, he rose, towel still in his hands.

“And now,” the Holy Father said, looking across the room to the clergy, “I invite my brother priests to join us, so that we may remember what our Lord taught when he knelt before his disciples. None of us is above this call to humble service, or above receiving it.”

From the startled expressions on their faces, Andreas gathered they hadn't been told of the Pope's intentions. They filed to the front of the altar, settling into the chairs, each removing their shoes first.
As the Holy Father began moving down the line, the room's atmosphere shifted. The reverent hush gave way to quieter, more relaxed conversation as voices resumed at the tables, volunteers began gathering empty plates. The ceremony continued, but the formality had eased into a communal rhythm.

Lawrence sat at the end of the row, hands gripping his knees. While the other priests bent to untie their shoes, he remained motionless, staring straight ahead. Tension gathered in his shoulders as the Pope began moving down the line.

When the Holy Father knelt before the Bishop Emeritus, the old bishop’s face grew solemn. As water poured over his thin feet, he reached down and placed his hand on the Pope’s head. Brief but deliberate, the touch made the Pope look up.

Andreas couldn’t hear what passed between them, if anything had been said at all. But the gesture made Bishop Esposito go very still, watching.

The Holy Father moved from the second-to-last priest to the final chair. Lawrence still hadn’t removed his shoes.

“Tomás,” the Holy Father said.

Lawrence stared down at him, his resolve crumbling. His hands shook as he untied his shoes. The cassock bunched around his knees, and he had to gather the fabric awkwardly to one side. His fingers fumbled with the laces—once, twice—before the knot gave way. Andreas saw the Cardinal struggle to remove his socks, both hands working the fabric down over his heel, the physical effort of it making his breathlessness more apparent. When he finally placed his bare foot in the basin, his hand gripped the chair.
The Pope waited until the Cardinal steadied himself, then raised the pitcher, letting the water flow over Lawrence's foot. His movements were the same as they had been with every other person, but Andreas noticed a quiet intensity in the Pope’s gaze.

When the Pope reached for the towel and began to dry Lawrence’s foot, the Cardinal’s breath hitched.

The Pope’s hands stilled. He looked up.

The Holy Father’s expression softened, but Andreas noted a hint of urgency in the way his eyes moved across Lawrence’s face. Not with the pure, gentle fondness of days past, but an assessment. Cataloging. Did he see now, the hollow beneath the Cardinal’s cheekbones? The way his cassock seemed to hang looser at the shoulders? The shadows under his eyes that even the lights overhead couldn’t hide?

Lawrence had leaned forward, watching the Pope at his feet, his own hands clasped tight, whether in prayer or simply gripping his gathered cassock, Andreas couldn’t tell. The pectoral cross hung forward, swaying.

The Holy Father reached out and took hold of the silver cross. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to it.

The kiss lasted seconds. When he pulled back, his hand lingered on the cross, and he whispered words too low for Andreas to hear over the room’s noise. The Pope pressed his mouth into a thin line, and while Andreas did not possess the gift of reading lips, he was almost certain the final word was please.

Lawrence met the Holy Father's gaze. The Pope kneeling, the Cardinal hunched forward in his chair, the silver cross still in the palm of Holy Father’s hand.

Lawrence looked past the Holy Father’s shoulder and gave a minute nod.

The Pope released the cross and rose, carrying the basin and towel back toward the altar. Lawrence sat motionless in his chair, staring at his hands in his lap.

The Holy Father turned to the gathered community.

“Saint Paul wrote, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Tonight we have opened our hearts, allowed ourselves to be seen in our weakness. This is where God’s grace meets us. Go in peace, knowing you are loved.”

The Cardinal bent to retrieve his shoes. Andreas watched him fumble with the laces, missing the eyelet twice before getting it right. When he finally tied them, he sat back in the chair for a moment, hands resting on his knees.

Then Lawrence lifted his hand to his face, wiping away what might have been moisture from his eyes.

The gesture so quick, so private, Andreas almost missed it.

Chapter Text

Nightfall had cloaked the sky long before their departure from the shelter. It was never a true darkness though, not really. City haze mixed and meddled with the skies above, casting a tinted glow over the pale façades of the Vatican’s many buildings, each one, it seemed, frozen in amber. 

His Holiness remained silent throughout their ride back. As the passing lights illuminated the Holy Father’s profile, Andreas saw his eyes flicker, more than once, toward the windshield, toward the lead vehicle in front of them, homeward. He had taken to smoothing the white fabric of his cassock at his lap. And while Andreas noted the fretting with mild concern, the Holy Father’s demeanor as a whole seemed much improved, compared to the gloom he had witnessed earlier. The weariness Andreas had seen in his eyes on their way to Trastevere replaced now by determination and hope. The visit to the shelter had done him well.

Leaving their charge at the palace entrance and in much higher spirits marked the end of their shift. They made their way back to the barracks on foot along the Via Sant’Anna, with Klaus and Andreas in front, Tadeo keeping pace just behind them, and Martinas and Will trailing behind. Lampposts punctuated the narrow two-way street, casting their glow in measured intervals along the cobblestones. Andreas had more or less checked out, half-listening to Klaus as his friend mused about, well, whatever abstract concept plagued his mind this evening. 

“—That’s the thing though,” Klaus said. “It’s not the wanting that gets you. Everyone wants things that they can’t have, right? That’s just being alive.”

He kicked a loose stone on the sidewalk. And there it was. That restless energy Klaus always carried with him, the constant need to fidget, to burn off whatever was churning in his head. It wouldn’t settle, at least not until they were all back at the barracks.

“But it’s the almost having it. That moment when you convince yourself the rules don’t apply. That you’re the exception. That’s what gets you.”

Andreas made a noncommittal sound.

“Exception to what?” Martinas asked from behind them, quickening his stride to catch his colleague’s words.

“To consequences,” Klaus said, pulling at the side of his jacket, wrapping it closer around himself. “You know it’s going to cost you, but you reach for it anyway. Then you lose it. Or it breaks you. And either way, you can’t even picture going back to how your life was before knowing about—”

His foot caught an uneven stone. He stumbled a step.

Tadeo’s hand shot out, steadying him by the elbow. “Careful,” his voice mild, but his grey eyes had lost their usual levity. “Don’t want you tripping over your words now.”

Klaus shot him a look. 

Will hummed, oblivious, it seemed, to Tadeo’s growing consternation at the direction the conversation had taken. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” he mused.

“I’m speaking from observation.” Klaus gave Andreas a playful shove on his shoulder. “You hang around this one long enough, and you pick up a thing or two.”

Andreas smirked.

Klaus stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, that’s my theory.”

They crossed into the sidestreet that led them past the Tower of Nicholas V, gate to the barracks in sight, the sentry on third shift already at their post. Andreas could feel himself begin to uncoil with relief at the sight of the building. First he’d have to wash the day off of him, then maybe, to unwind, play a round or two of Jass if Klaus and Will were up to it. At least tomorrow brought Good Friday, and for their unit that meant a later start, since they had worked tonight’s evening shift. The Passion service should prove simple enough, but the Way of the Cross would be a complicated affair, with all of the moving parts. Not to mention the impossibly open venue for that portion of the service. Still, the Holy Father wouldn’t have it any other way, not from what Andreas had seen in the months of knowing him. Tomorrow would bring its own headaches, sure, but tonight he just needed rest.

That’s when he saw him.

A man in maintenance coveralls criss-crossed through the lamplight ahead, moving toward the Apostolic Palace. Nothing unusual about a worker, Vatican maintenance assisted at all hours, and things broke all the time. Things always seemed to break at the worst moments, even, considering that elevator incident. Except— 

Andreas tracked the man as he passed between patches of light and shadow ahead, weaving around the lamplights. Weird. Dark hair, average build. Older than Andreas, maybe by a decade. But this man’s face, or what little Andreas could see of it in this low light, just stuck with him.

His mind flashed back to the Chrism Mass, earlier that morning. That priest in white, in the vestments, standing in the seventh row while everyone else sat.

Could it…could it be the same man?

He tried to get a better look, adjusting his angle, gauging the gait, the shoulders, but the man drifted further away, and momentum carried Andreas and his colleagues toward the barracks. Different clothes, different contexts, but as far as he knew, priests around these parts never moonlighted as maintenance workers. 

But what if he wasn’t wrong?

He almost spoke, then held his tongue. You’re seeing patterns everywhere. That’s what his friends had said earlier.

“—one drink before we call it?” asked Tadeo.

Definitely not. “Another time,” said Andreas. “I’m feeling a bit off, I think I’ll head to the pharmacy to get something.”

Klaus gave him a concerned look, then glanced at his watch. “You better hurry, they’re probably closing soon.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning in the general direction of the Farmacia Vaticana. “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Tadeo nodded and moved toward the front of the group. “Feel better, man!,” he called over his shoulder.

They ambled toward the barracks, their voices fading as they passed through the sentry’s gate. Andreas waited, counting under his breath, watching until they disappeared inside.

He turned on his heel.

There. The man moved through the colonnade. Andreas started walking, keeping his pace casual, in case others were watching, but decisive, quickening as the distance grew. He had ground to cover, if he wanted to ensure that this man stayed within his sights. He rounded the corner toward Cortile del Belvedere, watching as the man ducked into one of the archway entrances. Andreas followed.

The passage opened into a wider avenue. Via di Belvedere. Utility trucks, a few carts, a small flatbed lined one side of the street. The man cut between them, taking a direct route through the equipment.

Andreas slowed. His training kicked in, use the vehicles, stay low, keep the target in sight. He slipped between a truck and a cart, peering around the edge. There, the man ahead, moving toward the museums' service entrance.

Andreas darted to the next vehicle, then the next. His oxfords were too loud on the pavement. He shifted to the balls of his feet, trying to muffle the sound that seemed to echo across the empty lot. The man paused at a junction, looking side to side, then back over his shoulder, before continuing across.

Andreas froze behind a utility truck, pressing himself against the cold metal. His heart hammered in his ears. 

After a beat, the man turned and continued on, head held low, faster now.

Andreas waited three breaths, then followed. The man headed toward the Stradone dei Giardini—the wide avenue that led into the Vatican Gardens proper.

Andreas rounded the last parked vehicle and—

“Hey! Stop!”

An officer stepped out from an adjacent arcade, his navy uniform almost invisible in the low light, save for the reflective strip on his jacket, and the word GENDARMERIE in block letters over his left breast pocket. 

Andreas squinted against the flashlight beam trained on his face.

Oh. Right. Damnit. In any other circumstance, the officer would have taken one look at his uniform, and not have paid him any mind. But right now, in his pressed button-down and jacket with dress slacks, he looked like exactly what he was— someone that didn’t belong here. 

“Identification, please. What brings you out at this hour?”

Over the officer's shoulder, Andreas caught movement. The man in coveralls, heading now, toward the garden paths, the one flanked by the dense bamboo grove. What could need maintenance on the grounds at night? Andreas exhaled, fishing for his wallet in his inner pocket, careful to not flash the weapon holstered at his side.

“I’m…ah, going for a run.”

Where is that wallet?

The officer's flashlight dropped to Andreas's shoes. His oxfords.

“In those?”

The man had reached the tree line now.

“They have good arch support.” It wasn’t a lie, at least.

Found it! Andreas opened the leather bi-fold and handed the frontmost card over to the officer.

The officer held the ID up, tilting it to catch the hologram, the Pontifical Swiss Guard insignia, under the flashlight. Taking his time.

The man had disappeared. Swallowed by the olive-dark of the gardens.

“Andreas Schild…Sergeant Andreas Schild?”

“Yes.” Andreas forced himself to focus on the officer, not the empty path beyond.

The officer looked at him with a bewildered expression, he opened his mouth as if to say more, but then stopped, and shook his head. He gave Andreas his ID back. “Have a good run, Sergeant.”

Andreas pocketed the ID and moved toward where the man had disappeared. The trail wound deeper into the thicket, the underbrush obscuring the glow of the main way lights, fading behind him with each stride he took.

The foliage thickened. The distant splash of water grew louder. Through the trees ahead, he glimpsed the pale stone of the Casina. Andreas crept closer, using the low light as a cover. There—near the colonnade. The man, heading around the side of the building.

He circled to follow, but when he reached the grass clearing the man had vanished. Between the buildings, or deeper into the grove of olive and cypress trees. Andreas scanned the area, frustration mounting. He closed his eyes, hoping to hear a sound, the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves, something, anything, that could point him in the general direction of where the man had fled.

He heard a nightingale. And crickets. A canopy of branches sway overhead, with the breeze.  

Lost him.

Okay, let’s regroup. The Casina’s buildings were locked, no doubt about it. Both the museums and the Pontifical Academy. No access without keys, and he couldn’t imagine a single maintenance worker doing repair work in any of these buildings so late. Searching blind through the thicket would be futile, but if he held position, and watched the lit walkways, he could at least see which direction the man went. Due north, deeper into the gardens? Or southeast, back toward the Palace? 

He moved through to the far side of the nymphaeum colonnade, going up the stairs. keeping out of the light, and pressed himself against the railing. He had an unobstructed sightline to the pond, the surrounding walkways, and the building entrance. Good vantage point. If the man crossed any of them, Andreas would see him. He settled in to wait. 

The splash of the fountain. The rustle of wind through the palm fronds.

Then he heard voices.

Andreas tensed, ducking further into the shade. Hiding as best he could, in a gap between a potted plant and the museum’s stone exterior, he saw the Holy Father approaching the turtle pond. Unusual, given the time of night. But he could move as he pleased, within these walls.

Two guards emerged next, several paces behind. He let out an exhale. At least the Holy Father had protection.

The Holy Father slowed, turning to address his guards. Andreas couldn't hear the words, but he caught the dismissive gestures. The guards hesitated, but the Pope's body language left no doubt about his desire for solitude. Leave me. I'll be fine.

After a moment, the two guards bowed and retreated back down the path.

The Pope stood alone.

Andreas's chest constricted. What was he doing? Dismissing his protection, alone in the open at night, and somewhere nearby, the man Andreas had tracked still lurked out there. His hand moved toward his radio—wait. Call it in now, and he'd have to explain why he’d come. Never mind what Klaus and the rest would say, he could only imagine how that would go over with the Commander. Oh, yes, sorry Commander Müller, I saw a man that stared at me for three seconds at Mass this morning, so I decided to stalk his doppelgänger into the gardens to…to what? To question him?

And the Pope had wanted privacy. But if that man harbored nefarious intentions—

Andreas remained in position, trapped between duties, it seemed. Watch for the suspect. But what if he wasn’t a suspect? Protect the Pope. 

The Holy Father stood at the pond’s edge, pale cassock luminous against the verdant ground. A few turtles that had clustered around the far rim basked in the moonlight seemed unaffected by their late night visitor. 

A sound carried from just beyond the clearing. Footsteps on the gravel ahead. The Pope turned his head at the sound, expectant, almost. 

He’s waiting for someone, Andreas realized.

A tall, lean figure half-obscured by the brush came into focus on the tree-lined path. Black cassock accented with red piping. A clipped stride, with a folder in hand. Cardinal Lawrence. 

The Holy Father’s entire body sagged in relief, the tight set of his shoulders releasing, his hand worrying the beads on his rosary going still. 

His face softened. “I was waiting for you to come.”

Lawrence halted a stone’s throw away, the folder a barrier held between them. “Thank you for asking to see me, Holy Father.” He exhaled, as if steeling himself. “I had also hoped to have a moment to speak with you alone. I think a discussion is long overdue.” 

The Pope gave him a small, tentative smile, nodding. 

Lawrence stiffened, his grip tightening on the folder. “My comment about your parish in Kabul during the security meeting was beneath my office and yours. I should not have raised such a sensitive topic in that forum and certainly not in that callous manner.”

The Pope inclined his head, the memory of the previous day clouding his features. “What you said about Kabul hurt. You knew it would. Especially after what I’ve shared with you about my time there.”

“I have no excuse,” he said, his voice strained. “I have been discourteous in my duties this week. Abhorrently so. How I’ve behaved toward you in my official capacity has been unconscionable, and my lapse in judgement in the—” He broke off, brushing a hand across his face. “What I did to you was ill befitting of a member of the Apostolic Camera.”

He held out the folder, his hands not quite steady. “I can no longer serve as your Dean.”

The Holy Father took it, slow, his brow furrowed in confusion. He opened the folder, eyes scanning the first page. “Notice of resignation from office…” His voice trailed off. He looked up, alarm crossing his features, then turned to the next page. “Request for release to Sacro Eremo di Camaldoli?”

He blinked, stunned. “Tomás—”

“I will stay through the end of Holy Week, of course,” Lawrence continued, as if he hadn’t heard the protest. “Ray can handle the transition, and I’ve already made arrangements for—”

“No, wait. Stop.” The Pope looked between the folder and the Dean. “You want to leave and join a monastery? A hermitage? We had a heated moment, yes, and I understand that we are all overwhelmed by our duties for this week. But this? What passed between us, it does not warrant a resignation.”

“Of course it does!” Lawrence snapped.

The Pope flinched.

Lawrence let out a slow breath, his voice fraying at the edges. “These months…watching you step into this role, seeing you bring your pastoral heart and your compassion to this office, watching your vision for the Church take shape—” He exhaled, collecting himself. “Serving as your Dean has been the greatest honor of my life. I am grateful I was here to see it.” 

The softness vanished, replaced by a harshness that seemed directed only at himself. “But I cannot remain if my presence has become a liability and a threat to your pontificate.”

“A threat?” The Holy Father shook his head, bewildered. “You’ve been my most invaluable—”

“I took advantage of you in that lift!”

The words tore out of Lawrence, sharp and anguished. The careful control shattered. 

Andreas remembered, in that moment, what Klaus had said about the Holy Father’s fascia.

The Holy Father’s gaze found Lawrence, steady and unwavering. “You cannot take something that was given to you freely,” he said. “That I would give to you again.”

“Miserere mei, Deus—” Lawrence’s voice cracked. He turned away, raking a hand through his hair as he paced before the pond, looking at everything, it seemed, except the Pope. “Oh God, what have I done?”

“Don’t.” The Pope stepped forward, catching Lawrence’s arm. “Don’t twist this into something shameful.” 

His gaze searching, fingers tightening just enough to make Lawrence look at him. “It was never only you. We both—” The words caught in his throat. “We both wanted. For months now, and you must have felt it too. In the lift—we both knew what we were doing, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t want to stop.”

Andreas felt his face burn. What did he just hear?

Lawrence stepped back, pulling his sleeve away. “The Holy Father cannot entertain these follies.” His voice trembled, laced with bitterness, each word a lash against himself. “And I betrayed your office in the most lecherous way possible, by failing to protect you from myself, by allowing my selfish actions to lead to your ruin!” 

“I don’t need your protection, especially from you!”

Lawrence flinched, shoulders drawing in. For a moment he looked as though the Holy Father had struck him.

The Holy Father stepped forward. “No—Tomás, wait, that’s not what I meant—” The Pope’s anger drained away, replaced by dismay. “I trust you. I still do. But I don’t need protection from my own choices.”

“Choices that will mar the Holy Office you hold and negate all of the work you have accomplished?”

“Well at least they are mine to make!” The Pope’s frustration finally broke through. “You keep talking about the office. The work. The pontificate. What about us?”

A turtle splashed into the pond. 

The Holy Father stepped forward, eyes pleading. “Can’t I just be Vincent, with you?”

“There is no us,” Lawrence’s voice fell flat, final, laced with accusation. He held his ground. “Because it cannot be, we cannot be. You are the Pope. The Vicar of Christ, the heir to the throne of Saint Peter. And I am your brother Cardinal. That is precisely why this is impossible.”

He drew in a breath, looking down at the ground, each word seeming to cost him. “And you don’t—you don’t actually want me, Vincent.”

Vincent. Andreas knew the Holy Father’s given name, but he had never heard anyone use it.

“Have you seen me, truly? I’m an old man, nearly a decade your senior, with all of the burdens that come with it. I was there when you needed guidance and comfort, when everything was new and overwhelming. You’re confusing gratitude with, with lust—”

Andreas needed to sit down.

“That’s not—how can you say that?” The Holy Father looked stricken. He caught Lawrence’s hand and held it against his own chest, over his heart. “Look—feel this? You have all of me, my heart and soul too!” His voice grew desperate. “I would…I would bleed for you. You are altogether beautiful, Tomás—you carry yourself with such grace and dignity. Your care for others, your spirit, your whole being…there is no flaw in you. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, the way I have seen you for months.”

Cardinal Lawrence looked as stunned as Andreas felt.

The Holy Father’s grip tightened on Lawrence’s hand. “It’s the same gift you gave to me. Please don’t take that from me. Don’t turn what we shared into a wound I have to pretend isn’t there.”

Lawrence drew a sharp breath, eyes downcast. “It is a wound,” he admitted, his voice strained. “The Curia knows we’ve become close, and frankly, they are right to be concerned. I was supposed to be your guide, and instead I’ve become the greatest liability to your pontificate, a weakness.”

“Then stay weak with me,” the Holy Father said. “Stay human with me. We can figure this out together, please.” His voice broke on the plea. “I am yours, and you are mine. Remember?”

Lawrence gave a rueful smile. “To be what, then? Secret paramours, hiding in dark corners? Snatching moments between audiences and Masses?” His composure began to fracture, bitterness rising with each word. “Every day I stay, every day I let this continue, I pull you further from your ministry. Your calling deserves better than to be compromised by an old, degenerate louse.”

The Pope’s face fell. For a moment he could only stare, as if Lawrence had spoken blasphemy. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, his voice pained. “Don’t you dare call yourself that.”

“But it’s true.” Lawrence’s voice had hollowed out, resigned. “You’d come to resent me eventually, when the weight of what we’ve done becomes too much.”

“No.” The word came out fierce. “I could never resent you. The Curia can gossip all they want. You think disappearing to Camaldoli is the answer? That locking yourself away in a cell will make this right?”

He closed the distance between them. “There’s a difference between self-immolation disguised as sacrifice and piety. One purifies, the other destroys. It’s not holiness to suffer for its own sake.”

Andreas felt a twist in his chest. He’d never heard the Holy Father speak to someone with such raw, desperate conviction.

Lawrence’s composure wavered. “I have examined my conscience and prayed for discernment. My pursuit of contemplative life will redirect my focus toward—”

“Toward wasting away in the name of holiness?” The Pope’s voice broke. “Your conscience was turned against you by the very institution meant to guide it. The church failed you, and I am sorry for that.”

He reached toward Lawrence, hand hovering before settling on the Cardinal’s arms. “My heart bleeds for you, for not allowing you to feel, for twisting love into pain. For creating this instinct to retreat somewhere I can’t follow. But you’re not running toward God. You’re running from yourself, and away from me.”

The Pope let out a shaky breath.

“Tomás, please—if that’s what it takes, we'll find another way. I'll…I’ll find you a different position! I’ll keep my distance, whatever you need. If it means you won’t disappear to some monastery where you’ll punish yourself until there’s nothing left—” His voice caught. “Just stay. Please, don’t make me watch you walk away and pretend it’s a calling. Stay where I can see that you’re safe.”

Lawrence stood frozen under the Holy Father’s touch, his face a mask of anguish. “There’s no version of this where I can remain in Rome and not—” he faltered, swallowing. “The temptation would always be there. I’ll break every vow I’ve ever made. Again.”

Andreas wished he could make himself even smaller. He wished he could sink into the inky blackness of the night. Yet he couldn’t look away. And worse, he could not leave.

The Pope stood there, watching Lawrence turn away. Tearful. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave me.” His voice trembled, small, wounded. “Stay. If you lo—” he stopped, almost afraid to say the word. “If you feel anything for me, just stay. Please.”

Lawrence paused. A bell rang from St. Peter’s Basilica, the pale dome only just visible beyond the palm fronds and cypress trees. Two turtles slipped into the water.

He turned to look at the Basilica, then stepped toward the Holy Father. 

“My dear Vincent, of course I love you,” he said, voice breaking, fragile, an impossible confession. He pressed a kiss to the Pope’s cheek, tender, and yet final enough to be a farewell. “That’s why I have to go.”

He retreated, the soft rasp of gravel underfoot fading with each step. He did not look back.

The Holy Father stood at the pond’s edge, motionless save for one hand which rose to touch his cheek. The folder hung from his other hand. He stared at the path where Lawrence had disappeared. His fingers loosened, the folder slipping free, landing on the cobblestones with a soft thud.

He sank to the ground beside the pond, white cassock pooling around him. His shoulders began to shake.  

Andreas leaned back into the column, his throat tight. His training urged him to go to his charge, to offer protection, presence, something. But what could he say? I'm sorry, Holy Father, I was hiding in the corner over there after stalking a maintenance worker and heard you confess your love to the Dean? 

He shouldn’t have followed that man. Klaus was right—he saw threats that didn’t exist. And now, trapped here, witness to a compromising situation that could rupture the church. All because he’d chased shadows into the gardens.

The Pope's hands came up to cover his face, a sound escaping him that Andreas had never heard from the man before, pure, unadulterated grief.

Andreas took one step back, then another. He needed to leave, to get out before the Pope noticed him, before this moment became even more unbearable. He moved along the wall, toward the outer perimeter of the Casina’s courtyard, and climbed just over the stair railing, the grass muffling his landing. He kept just off the gravel path. The grate of the pebbles under his oxfords would be too loud. He felt through each step, hoping he wouldn’t snap a twig or crunch a leaf that would give him away.

When he reached the tree line, he glanced back one last time.

He wanted to stay, to help in some way, but what protection could he offer now? What comfort could he give that wouldn’t make this worse?

The Holy Father remained at the water’s edge, alone in the garden, weeping beside the turtle pond. The resignation letter scattered on the cobblestones like fallen petals. Beyond the hill, the pale of the Basilica rose against the night’s dark. The Dean had put him back in his rightful place; left amongst the marble and stucco, seen to, but never seen, trapped under the starless sky.