Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Later, Thomas will find the time to be appropriately ashamed of his intemperate cry of "God, what now?" when Willi walks through the door of the editor-in-chief's vacant office with a stranger in tow.

Willi winces, but holds fast: "Sir, he's our newest editor." He hands over a stack of copy paper to Thomas. Then his courage fails him, and he flees the room even before Thomas can muster a how-do-you-do.

"He", it turns out, is Mr Vincent Benítez, a special correspondent whose most recent investigative report had been on impoverished rural towns relying on marijuana farms to sustain their local economies—before the editor-in-chief of The Daily Key had convinced him to come to Vatican City as an editor on a trial basis.

All this is outlined in a series of printed emails between the EIC and Mr Benítez over the course of a year. Thomas is unsurprised but obscurely pained that he had not been cc'ed in the emails; he has to stifle a pang when he spots Aldo's address in the headers of earliest messages. The clincher is a contract between Holy See Media Corp. and Mr Benítez for the transfer, with the EIC and Janusz as witnesses. He takes a moment to center himself before facing Mr Benítez—

—who looks dead on his feet, because—to Thomas' growing dismay—it's patently obvious he'd gone to the Key offices immediately from the airport, carry-on luggage tag still looped on his laptop backpack, thick dark hair flattened on one side from sleeping with his face mashed against the plane window, eyebags to rival Aldo's during election season coverage amplified by the glasses he wears. Mr Benítez musters a weak smile at Thomas, which intensifies the ulcer suppurating in his gut since 5 a.m.

"I'm so sorry, my dear man, please, take a seat," he says, herding Mr Benítez towards the sofa pushed to one corner of the room and taking his luggage from him with what he hopes is a chevalier forcefulness. The sofa is not very comfortable, because the EIC believes in Brutalist Furniture to impress upon Key staff the discomforts of their profession, so it's a sign of Mr Benítez's exhaustion that he sags against the cushions as though he's resting on fluffy clouds.

Thomas berates himself in his mind yet again. Out loud, he says, "Water," and spins on his heel and cracks open the office door. To his great relief, Ray is perched on Janusz's desk, apparently enraptured by the clipboard in his arms.

"Ray," he whisper-shouts, and Ray's head jerks up.

"Yes, Mr Lawrence?"

"Ray," Thomas says, now in an entirely different tone—he'd thought they'd been getting along better after the last teambuilding activity—but remembers that there are more urgent matters at hand than Ray's continuing refusal to call him by his Christian name. "Ray, if you wouldn't mind, may I have a mug, and a carafe of cold water, a carafe of room temperature water, a thermos of hot water, and a bucket of ice? Filtered water, please, not from the tap."

Ray's eyes flicker to the rolled-down blinds obscuring the insides of the EIC's office, then back to Thomas. "No problem. If I may—Willi has some packets of Liquid IV, electrolyte powder, I can get them for your guest."

Thomas instantly forgives Ray for calling him Mr Lawrence, yet again. "Bless you, Ray."

---

Despite all odds, God has portioned out some semblance of mercy for his devoted servant Thomas Lawrence, because upon further checking—mostly by Ray, who is a veritable wizard with the office intranet—Mr Benítez has already been procured an apartment somewhere in the city, arrangements have been put in place for the rest of his personal belongings to be brought over to Vatican City, and paperwork has been made ready for his payroll account with the Key's bank, requiring only Mr Benítez to sign here, and here, and your initials here please, and oops, you missed this line, sign here too.

And yet. Thomas had not been informed.

He resists the urge to call the EIC. One, the man isn't called the Holy Father during his tenure as the Daily Key's editor-in-chief because he's the warm and fuzzy paternal sort. Two, what can Thomas even say that won't make him sound like an incompetent fool who can't even do his job properly? Three, calling cruise ships from mobile phones is apparently prohibitively expensive, and he'd overheard Janusz insisting that the Holy Father not purchase an Internet package on the reservation website.

Thomas has to step back into a corner of the office to do some breathing exercises he learned from a Facebook video, while very chipper people from human resources sort Mr Benítez out.

"Thank you, I see, thank you," Mr Benítez keeps repeating, barely above a murmur. Periodically, his attention will shift unnervingly from the person explaining the Key's health plan to Thomas, who has to arrange his face into something resembling a dignified benevolence. It will not do to scare away our newest employee, Thomas thinks.

The office door suddenly swings open with a bang, crashing against the triple glazed tempered glass wall before bouncing off. Everyone in the room jumps; the young woman from payroll drops her binder.

Aldo shoots through the doorway like a short-fused rocket, Thomas directly in his line of sight. "Thomas, what the fu—"

"Good afternoon, Aldo, how are you, I was planning on making the introductions once everything has been settled but I suppose now is a good time for you to meet our new colleague Mr Vincent Benítez," Thomas says rapidly and quite sternly.

Aldo whips his head around to behold Mr Benítez, then whips back to Thomas. Somewhere in the room, a whimper is heard. Thomas is only sure it didn't come from him because he's confidently left his whimpering-at-Aldo phase behind five promotions ago.

"Yes," Aldo bites out. "We've been introduced."

"You may call me Vincent," Mr Benítez pipes up from where he's still seated on the sofa. He is not looking at Aldo when he says it.

"Thomas." Thomas tells himself that he has very definitely outgrown his whimpering-at-Aldo phase. "A word. Outside."

Mr Benítez—Vincent—abruptly stands up. He's shed his fatigue like an unwanted cloak. He says, unexpectedly firm, "Mr Bellini, if you have a problem with me, you may let me know now."

Thomas gapes. The flock from human resources freezes. Even Aldo is taken aback; he scrambles for his earlier fury, but it's obvious that Vincent's direct statement has dampened his ardor. He rallies:

"I—I only wish to consult with my colleague Thomas regarding the—propriety—of this hasty onboarding."

"I assure you, it was not hasty at all. It has been a year or so's endeavor."

"Such a long time. I wonder how the Holy Father convinced you."

"That is between the Holy Father and myself."

"Yes, because I was left out of the loop in the email threads."

"You'll have to ask the Holy Father why he removed your address from the cc field."

Thomas, suspecting that the taste of iron in his mouth only has partly to do with his ulcer, interrupts them with, "The contract has been executed, Aldo. The Board has approved the transfer."

For the briefest of moments Thomas thinks he might have to deliver unto Aldo the remaining carafe of cold water—his face has turned a very blotchy red. He glares at Thomas, who widens his eyes and tries to project a calm and soothing and I-am-only-an-instrument-of-the-Holy-Father's-will countenance.

He fails, miserably, but Aldo must have already arrived at the conclusion that the only ones he can fight on this with any real effect are their parent company's Board of Directors and a man who's likely sunning himself in the middle of some fucking ocean. He exhales noisily and mutters under his breath, "Fine. Fucking—fine."

Thomas bites back a reproach. Aldo has been under enormous pressure, and Thomas sees his own discontent at the Holy Father in Aldo's biting rage. He turns to smile reassuringly at the poor employees who've had to witness the fracas—though, really, surely some of them have experienced what the newsroom is like after 6:00 p.m. Unlike Vincent, who has not; yet it is Vincent whose features soften from their severe lines, who smiles back, for a second time, at Thomas. He tries not to turn around to see if Vincent is smiling at someone behind him.

"Now that we've all had a little excitement," he announces, mustering the sort of cheer he imagines his ancestors had kept up during the Blitz, "I hope all the paperwork's done? Good, thank you, everyone—yes, you may go ahead—and Mister, sorry, Vincent, you have the key and directions to your new apartment? Excellent. I'll accompany you down, we'll get you a cab so you can finally freshen up and rest." Within seconds, the EIC's office has been emptied of all but three people, Vincent's laptop backpack has been returned to him, and Thomas' hand is poised on the small of his back ready to guide him to the elevator bank. He's gotten Vincent through the doorway and is about to step out as well when he feels Aldo's touch on his forearm.

"Thomas—" Aldo says; "I'll send Vincent off first," Thomas replies, and adds, kindly, "It's almost four, your reporters will be calling soon."

---

The elevator ride to the lobby is not uncomfortable per se, until Thomas opens his mouth to speak and Vincent says, in the same gentle way that he'd spoken to Thomas before Hurricane Aldo, "If you're apologizing for Mr Bellini, I'd rather not hear it."

Thomas closes his mouth. Wishes that his ulcer will take him out, after all.

Vincent continues: "But I thank you, Mr Lawrence—"

"—oh please call me Thomas, everyone does," Thomas hurries to say (it's not a lie if he excludes Ray, who should know better but has some odd complex about Thomas' first name, and Willi, who had taken a seminar under him when he was an impressionable youngster and gets a free pass).

"—Thomas," Vincent corrects himself, and Thomas must have imagined how pleased Vincent is while saying his name. "You have been very kind with your time and effort. Oh! I forgot to thank Mr Mandorff for bringing me up to the newsroom, and your Ray for the many waters."

"I'll let them know," Thomas assures him. "I won't apologize for Aldo, but I am sorry I can't drive you to your new home. Our storycon is at 5 p.m."

Vincent nods. "It's alright, I would've made a poor passenger, truthfully I am quite—" he yawns. Thomas averts his eyes from the glimpse of his pink gums and tongue. "—tired." He sways in place a little, in rhythm with the rattling of the elevator, and Thomas shores him up with a bracing grip on his wrist. He does not apologize for the liberty he's taken; it may draw Vincent's attention, and a part of Thomas isn't very sorry at all.

Ding! goes the elevator bell and the doors grind open. Vincent startles from his half-doze. Thomas lets go, sliding his hand into his pants pocket.

Usually the building people keep the elevator temperature cool, and even chilly. Yet, Thomas feels overwarm. He makes a note to inform the lobby that the ventilation may need to be looked at.

Chapter Text

Superheroes have existed in Vatican City for as long as there have been metahumans.

Inevitably, there is debate on who came first, crime-committing metahumans or their crime-fighting counterparts, but what it has meant for Thomas personally is an uptick in offers of property damage insurance and many many many revisions in the Key stylebook on proper nomenclature, until the one time he lets himself run to the bank for an errand on the way to work—

—and has his very pleasant transaction with the teller interrupted by a band of gun-toting maniacs hollering about a robbery, everybody get the fuck down and shut the fuck up right the fuck now and don't you dare fucking move!

(Aldo, a passionate advocate of so-called online banking, will never let him live down being taken hostage while he's trying to get his checkbook updated.)

Thomas does as the robbers bid, and gets down to his knees. He dares not hope that they'll shoot him before he has to endure the indignity of having to stand up unassisted.

Next to him, an elderly lady has not so much kneeled, but collapsed to the ground, lace-gloved hands clamped over her mouth. Keeping a grim eye at the robbers, Thomas shuffles over to her as stealthily as he can, angling his body so that he'll cover her.

The gun-toter-in-chief induces the bank manager to escort them to the safe, leaving the lobby of terrified customers and staff under the watch of their accomplices. A long-disused part of Thomas creaks rustily back to life mentally recording observations: it's 9:37 a.m., there are four robbers, identifying markers apart from height obscured by caps and ski-masks and jackets and gloves, an estimated twelve hostages, including yours truly the embedded correspondent and the branch staff and the unconscious security guard…

His puzzlement over why there are only three accomplices, small number of hostages aside, vanishes when one of them—the tallest one—conjures several lengths of rope out of thin air and orders a teller to start tying everyone up. Clearly, they're a metahuman.

Old lessons from journalist safety workshops kick in; he offers his wrists without hesitation. However, the elderly woman has locked up under the stress and does not respond to the shivering teller's whispered entreaties to just let herself get tied up.

The shorter robber notices the holdup. "What the fuck is the holdup?" they roar, stomping over to Thomas' position.

"I'm sorry, I'm—she's really scared," the teller stammers out, "Maybe, I don't— she doesn't need to be—"

"No! Secure everybody! Her too!"

Thomas speaks up, unable to help himself. "Look at her," he implores, "she's not a threat!"

Thomas has never been a wartime journalist: this is the first time the barrel of a gun has been swung directly at him. It is like looking into the void, or over the precipice to hell, or his cardiologist letting him know that a stress test must be done.

"Just fucking cooperate, you bi—"

And then there was light.

(That's how Thomas will describe it, later on, and Ray schedules him for a CT scan.)

And a great deal of shattering glass.

A—someone—stands where the wreckage of the bank's front doors used to be.

Gunfire erupts from the trigger-happy robbers, confirming Thomas' snap judgment of them as maniacs. With speed he doesn't know he possesses, he manages to yank the teller to the ground, and shove her, the elderly woman, and himself closer to the marble counter and away from the shootout, which—abruptly ceases, with several heavy thuds.

Thomas takes a deep breath, gagging at the acrid burn of gunpowder, and looks up.

Then down, to where the entire band of robbers has been laid out on the lobby floor, unconscious, with their smoking guns now a mass of twisted metal.

Then up again, at the metahuman who saved them all.

Backlit by the morning sun, his face is obscured by shadows. All Thomas gets are impressions: thick dark hair that curled slightly at the tips; brown skin with golden undertones; mediumish build; really eyewateringly colorful bodysuit and trunks and cape and boots that don't detract from the heft of strong thighs.

Another metahuman.

A superhero.

Thomas' head spins from all of the excitement; his last thought before he blacks out is, why do all the colors in his suit clash?

---

Thomas comes to inside the depressingly familiar ceiling of an ambulance, and to the depressingly familiar face of paramedic Minseok, watching the readings on the sphygmomanometer he'd clamped on Thomas.

"Hello, Minseok," Thomas greets him. The stretcher has been placed in a sitting position, so Thomas has a decent view of the half-opened door from where he is. Minseok had remembered his preferences from the last time Minseok's EMT unit had been called to the Key offices.

"Hi, sir, glad to see you awake," Minseok replies, and efficiently stabs his eyes with his penlight beams. "Pupils are fine, your BP's fine—"

"—don't lie, Minseok, my blood pressure's not fine—" (Unlike many of his colleagues, Thomas prefers to confront his general deterioration head-on.)

"Your BP's not the fault of today's robbery," Minseok amends, goodnaturedly, "So I'm prepared to diagnose your fainting spell as the result of too much adrenaline and shock. Here, have some sugar."

Thomas wordlessly takes the juice bottle, deciding to ignore that he'd apparently swooned during a hostage situation, and after a few sips, asks, "Did they give you my briefcase?"

Miracle of miracles, some kind soul did, and Thomas rummages for his glasses—jotter—pen, frantically writing down his memories of the robbery in slapdash shorthand. (Minseok calmly takes the unfinished bottle away and begins tidying his own equipment up. At least if Mr Lawrence keels over from overexcited notetaking, Minseok can respond rapidly.)

As Thomas reaches the part of the timeline where the colorful metahuman—superhero! the metahuman has to be a superhero, hasn't he? he was certainly dressed like one—had shown up, he jerks to a stop.

With some effort, he heaves his body off the stretcher and scrambles out of the ambulance, ignoring the protests of his joints and Minseok. He scans the street outside the bank, now crowded with fellow hostages, police officers, emergency services, and vultures from the press (including the Key's Janine, which makes him proud at her response time).

The superhero is still here!

He hurries past the bank manager telling a police sergeant, "Yes, we're very lucky there were so few customers present. It's the shift to online banking, you know," and finds himself at the edge of a small crowd of people ringed around the superhero, who was … crouched down by a parked car.

Thomas asks the nearest bystander, "What's happening?"

"There's a kid," is the distracted reply, and ah, yes Thomas can see now the small tousled head and even smaller hands peeking out from beneath the vehicle.

The superhero is saying, in a voice that takes Thomas back to his kindest and gentlest teachers, "It's alright, you can come out now. The bad guys are gone. Don't you want your mom to know you're OK?"

"…Mama says I shouldn't talk to strangers," the child says.

The superhero laughs. Thomas wants to laugh with him. "Your mama's right! Let me start over. Hello, my name is Innocentius. How do you do?" He and the child exchange a solemn handshake with their fingertips.

The crowd stirs.

"Inno—what?"

"What language is that?"

"Don't know what that is."

"Alien, isn't it?"

"Oh my god, we have an alien superhero?"

Above the murmurs, the child's voice rings out. "Inn'cen—Inn—"

Innocentius draws nearer to the child and tells them, "Don't worry if you can't get my name right. As long as you call for me with all your heart, I will hear you, and help you."

"K. My name's Rio. You can help me please." The child then thrusts their arms out, waggling them madly, and Innocentius eases them out and places them on their feet in one careful maneuver. He stays in a neat squat, so that the two of them are at eye level.

The crowd claps; it's not a particularly difficult rescue, but the charm is undeniable.

Rio sticks their hand into their coat pocket and says, "Count Fibby! I left her!"

Innocentius captures Rio before they can dive back down. "Let me help you with that, Rio," and casually lifts the car up with one hand, exposing its undercarriage, so that Rio can get a thing of fluff and cloth that had evidently fallen from their grasp when they were pulled out. Once they're safely back at his side, Innocentius puts the car back down. The car's suspension makes zero noise.

Thomas dizzily wonders if perhaps he should have had more than a mouthful of the juice Minseok had offered him.

"Wow, you're so strong!" Rio tells Innocentius. "Can Count Fibby and I hug you? Mama says I have to ask."

"Rio, I'd love a hug," Innocentius says, and opens his arms to her. A few people clap for the hug; some, like Thomas, go awww. (Thomas has reviewed the codes of ethics of multiple organizations, and there is no known journalistic prohibition against cooing when a child and a superhero do something cute in front of a member of the press.)

"RIO!" A woman with Rio's hair runs up from across the street. "I've been looking everywhere for y—oh!" She stumbles to a halt at the sight of Innocentius (and the crowd of bystanders).

"Mama! Look! Inn'cen helped me get Count Fibby!"

"Rio must've heard the noises from the bank and got scared and went to a safe place to hide," Innocentius says, standing up to his full height, which is, by the average Vatican City superhero standard, slightly below average. The overall effect with his billowing cape and wind-tousled hair is still marvelous, though, Thomas notes. When the woman's attention is drawn to the mess of people and cars in front of the wreckage of the First National Bank, he hurries to add, "Don't worry, Rio wasn't near that at all."

"Good. Thank you, sir," Rio's mama says, her alarm giving way to relief. "Oh, Rio, you have got to stop crawling under cars!"

"But they're super-safe!!"

"No!!"

After another round of hugs (Rio) and handshakes (Rio's mama) and Innocentius backing Rio's mama's insistence that Rio shouldn't hide under cars at the first sign of trouble, Innocentius waves them goodbye and then, finally, seemingly appears to notice the audience he's attracted. His dark eyes widen briefly, then he smiles again and chances a wave.

The crowd claps again. This time there are cheers and a few cellphone camera shutters clicking.

To his surprise, Thomas' hand shoots up in the air. Innocentius' eyes are immediately on him. The people in front of Thomas are suddenly no longer there.

"Good morning, Mister—? Right, Mr Innocentius," Thomas calls out in his best press conference voice, "Hi. Lawrence from The Daily Key. One question: how do you spell your superhero name?" The ensuing silence is so complete that he's compelled to blather on, "For our readers, you see. We want to get your name correct." Damn, he's left his pen in the ambulance. He spots Minseok a few steps away. He's evidently followed Thomas, likely concerned for Thomas' blood pressure or blood sugar or heartrate or somesuch. Thomas eyeballs him and Minseok eyeballs back; he somehow figures out Thomas' unspoken request and lends him the permanent marker clipped to his jacket. Thomas uncaps it and focuses on Innocentius, whose placidity has given way to the slightest of hesitation.

"You'll be writing about…me, Lawrence?" Innocentius asks.

Not me, Thomas thinks. I haven't written a news story in years! But he nods with utmost conviction.

"It's. I-N-N-O-C-E-N-T-I-U-S," Innocentius says, pronouncing each letter slowly as Thomas writes them down on the dry skin on the inside of his forearm.

"Thank you," Thomas tells him, and blindly hands the marker back to his waiting paramedic. He can't seem to tear his gaze away from Innocentius. "The readers of The Daily Key are grateful—and, if I may," he says, softer, "so am I. You answered our prayers there, inside the bank."

Innocentius' answering smile is front-page-worthy, above the fold.

Behind Thomas, someone exclaims, "He's the super who stopped the bank robbery? Whoa! I thought he dropped by just to save the kid!"