Chapter Text
Prologue
On the eve of what had otherwise been a fairly typical Monday, Thomas Lawrence, (still) Dean of the College of Cardinals, considered the modern church’s many incongruities as he spoke with Pope Innocent XIV on FaceTime.
“Is this the place, Your Holiness?” Unwilling (or rather unable) to swap the camera front-to-back, Lawrence simply turned the handset. “If so, I’m afraid I must ask - are you quite sure?”
“It will do nicely,” the Holy Father said - a statement that, Lawrence thought privately, didn’t exactly answer his question.
The church currently looking overhead was not, on balance, the ugliest Lawrence had ever seen, but he had to admit it was a close call. It was a thought he ought to admonish; if their incumbent Holy Father was proof of anything, it was the call of God from unlikely origins— but although Lawrence was willing to accept that someone might hear Him from within four lilac pebbledash walls, he likely lacked the religious telemetry himself. Such feats were more common amongst Anglicans, or those people who saw the face of Christ on their morning toast.
“It certainly stands out,” Lawrence said, as the diplomat in his soul began, once again, to beg for a day’s rest. “Forgive me, Your Holiness, but again- are we confident this will inspire anything but further discord?”
“You think they will argue over architecture?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Lawrence said, tactful as he could manage. There was often a fine line to walk between serving a Pope and saving him, from himself as much as his cardinals— though frankly, if the Holy Father couldn’t see this one coming down the pipe, Lawrence was going to have Ray book him in at the optometrist. “Their relationship has been— acrimonious, shall we say, since the beginning.”
“They disagree over liturgy— among other topics?“
“To be frank, Your Holiness, they would disagree over the colour of the sky,” Lawrence said. “Aldo would say ‘blue,’ Goffredo ‘green’ out of spite, and then they would both need retrieving from the Trevi Fountain.”
Innocent smiled with his teeth when truly amused. It was rare, Lawrence had noticed, but extremely welcome.
“As Christ broke bread with Matthew…” He did not finish, knowing Lawrence would catch his drift— and Lawrence did, though thought privately that so long as Cardinals Bellini and Tedesco remained within breathing distance, bread was the last thing anyone should worry about being broken.
“I have your instructions,” Lawrence said, “and your address - unopened of course, as promised.”
“Gracias, Tomás,” Innocent said, beatifically as he did anything - which was to say, with knobs on. “I hope—“ and then he frowned, as did Lawrence when he realised he was now looking at the Holy Father’s face upside down. “Santa María,” he muttered, then, “oh bother; Monsignor—”
“Turn the screen, Your Holiness,” came Raymond O’Malley’s voice from out of frame. “Turn— like that. Like- no, see—“
There was a small scuffle, the sound of disturbed audio, fabric brushed against a mic, and another few hushed instructions before the camera, and therefore the Pope’s face, righted itself.
“You have my thanks,” the Holy Father said, reverent as if Ray had blessed him. “As do you, Decano mío; you will keep me informed?”
“Of course, Your Holiness,” Lawrence replied, though a strange feeling had taken up in his stomach, and he almost wished, for some reason, that Ray were elsewhere.
Such was the feeling that he chose instinctively to misdirect, opening his messages shortly afterwards and texting Ray:
Oh bother?
One of yours, I believe, Ray replied swiftly, and as that seemed a far more likely explanation than the Pope sampling A.A Milne, Lawrence stowed his phone, and made his way inside the unfortunate church.
Whilst he’d been hopeful that the ‘cover’ was doing the ‘book’ a disservice, Lawrence was almost immediately confronted by a six-foot standing depiction of the Blessed Virgin upon entry, and thought wistfully for a time before fibreglass. Inside the hall itself was no real improvement; there was a garishness to it one seldom saw, even Thomas, who’d once spent an uncharitable stretch of time gawking at American ‘mega-churches,’ after WiFi found its way to his flat.
It made him uncomfortable; such profound ugliness could only come with a large price tag, and Lawrence was of the opinion their doctrinal commitment to ‘procuring’ wealth ought probably to have stopped with the Reformation. But this was Italy, and though Lawrence rarely felt more English than when being snide about decor, he strove to remember his calling, and took a seat in the second row.
He closed his eyes, but the climb towards prayer was still uphill on occasion, and to even attempt it in a place such as this, ahead of such an ultimately mendacious task, felt dishonest at best.
If God’s voice came easiest to him these days with soft Latin American vowels, was that a sin, or the ultimate approval of His choice? Ask his brother cardinals and they’d return a dozen different answers; ask himself, and Lawrence would turn in circles wishing he could still simply ask God.
There was a third option, of course, but he had yet to find the moment, or frankly the courage. The truth was he feared the answer; though the Holy Father would be kind, he would also be distressed, and the part of Lawrence that would not, could not, call him ‘Vincent’ in private, as he’d requested, knew it only too well. In his sixty-two years, Lawrence had never met a man, or even a feral cat, more impervious to attention. He seemed to abhor it, to appear suddenly both decades older, and impossibly young, near-simultaneously when praised. Deification, Lawrence knew, would prove unbearable; he might as well spill every one of the Pope’s secrets to Tedesco and encourage the rancid prick to tweet about it, so high would the betrayal stack up.
What is it you want from me? Lawrence asked, of God this time, and for by no means the first. To serve him, as conduit? Or to serve him— in whose name? By which name: the one he chose in yours, or the one he requested I covet?
He’d just begun to give it some real thought when the door behind swung open, and Thomas, Cardinal Lawrence, prepared to enter hell for a second time.
**
It was not hell, in the end, but a temporary reprieve.
In the some-forty years Lawrence had known, worked with, and prayed alongside Aldo Bellini, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d wished they were, instead, apart.
The first had been in seminary school - a stalemate lasting all of thirty seconds before Aldo had sighed, offered his younger, still-twitching, new roommate a handshake, and told him to pick a bunk. The second was when they received simultaneous appointments to the Vatican, and what they’d both hoped would be a sedate celebration of fettuccine vongole ended with them fighting over the same, shared bathroom overnight. The third had been during the most recent conclave, and the fourth—
Well, the fourth began the second Bellini walked into this House of Holy Horrors, not knowing what lay ahead, but Lawrence, in all his weakness, couldn’t quite commit to the feeling.
In the apparent absence of God, it seemed, one’s best friend was a very welcome substitute.
“Well this is interesting,” Aldo said, his gaze flitting metronomically back and forth across the aisle as he ascended it. “The purple exterior was already a ‘choice,’ but was that a silicone nativity in the hall?”
“Very likely,” Lawrence said, and feels a different kind of peace settle over him when Bellini’s hand is within his own once more. “I fear this place may be slightly more— lurid, than the Holy Father had hoped.”
“No kidding,” Bellini said. “Can’t quite work out if I’m here to help you, or to marry you Vegas-style.”
“We are, as always, merely one Elvis impersonator free from madness.” Lawrence let their clasped hands drop, then gestured to the pew. “Come, sit.”
Aldo did so, and took a moment to adjust himself, as if the pew were an unfamiliar toilet. “You know, you’ve still not told me what I’m doing here.”
That much was true, though Thomas had absolutely no idea how to proceed. The key would be in the phrasing: it must be close enough to the truth to preserve his vows, and also to avoid Aldo instantaneously sniffing out the lie.
“His Holiness is calling it a ‘diplomatic mission.’”
“Uh-huh,” Aldo said, as per always, sceptical. “And what would you call it?”
Lawrence had begun an entreaty in his head some weeks before on whose confidence to betray, only to remember he was likely damned either way. As Dean, as a man of God, his loyalty lay with the Holy Father. As a friend, as simply a man—
“I would call it a ‘mission,’” Lawrence said, and prayed Aldo forgave him. “Diplomacy, I fear, may lay further afield than His Holiness appreciates.”
‘Further afield’ meaning ‘miles,’ Lawrence thought. ‘The gap between continents.’ ‘Mercury to Mars.’
“That’s fine,” Aldo said, then cast his gaze forwards to the legitimately tinsel-wrapped pulpit. “Far be it for me to question His Holiness— though unless this ‘mission’ involves paintbrushes, a dumpster, and at least one of those ‘Fab Five’ guys, I don’t really know what you two are hoping to achieve.”
If he were being completely honest, neither did Lawrence. His role as Dean was advisory; he’d advised against this, but Innocent could be surprisingly stubborn when set on an idea, and rather it being a new trait, emboldened by his new role, Lawrence suspected it was one he’d honed fairly regularly since youth.
“The Holy Father wishes to know us all better,” Lawrence said. This, at least, was no lie. “Our minds, I think, as much as our souls.”
“Like any good boss,” Aldo quipped, then: “You know he has no interest in chess?” Lawrence watched his dear friend’s face twist, then right itself, a string plucked, and then stilled. “To be honest, I’m kind of glad.”
If there were ever a moment to feel guiltiest about what he had helped set in motion here, Lawrence knew for certain this was it— but he had no time to consider confession, for they both heard the church door open once again, and with the tolling of that bell, Lawrence couldn't help but close his eyes.
Aldo, of course, was on him like a terrier down a foxhole.
“What?” he asked, then seemed to register the sound for the first time. “Thomas? Who’s out there?”
It was no longer a case of ‘out,’ as became clear when the doors swung open, and Goffredo Tedesco began bustling his way down the aisle.
There was a moment of stillness Lawrence noticed, as Tedesco and Aldo locked eyes. Not mere enemies, no— what was worse than that? Lawrence felt the answer might lie in what he’d done, and yet his first, most pressing thought was this: in all their years as colleagues, Lawrence didn’t think he’d ever seen the Patriarch of Venice legitimately surprised.
Time crept back to them as it often does: in increments, and then all at once. Aldo’s gaze snapped from Tedesco’s to Lawrence’s own, as the jig, as it were, declared itself entirely up.
“What is he doing here?”
“I will ask the same.” Tedesco strode bullishly closer, and although Lawrence was not afraid of the man, and never had been, he understood in that moment how some - many - could be. Lawrence stood, whilst Tedesco did not pause his ascent until he was a hair’s breadth away. “Che inganno, Tommaso; perché siamo qui?”
Standing both above, and somehow beneath, Tedesco’s gaze was a terrifying feeling, made all the worse by the feeling of Aldo’s, furious, confused, betrayed, on the back of Lawrence’s neck. He strove to collect himself; he ultimately failed, and instead croaked out:
“His Holiness—“
“Yeah, yeah, ‘His Holiness,’ I heard that,” Aldo said— then he stood too, and by some divine perception, appeared suddenly on-par with Tedesco as the tallest man in the room. “For once, I’m actually with him; why are we here?”
There was no way around it, and Lawrence knew he would be damned for even trying.
“His Holiness has asked that you remain here,” Lawrence said, “until such— contentions, as they were, be tolerated, if not entirely put to rest.”
“Cosa significa questo?”
“Yeah, and again,” Aldo said, as Lawrence considered whether the truest slight he’d dealt his friend today was forcing him, multiple times, to agree with Tedesco. He watched Aldo shake his head - more of a jerk, really, pure disbelief soaking through his face. “‘Contentions,’ Thomas? That’s what we’re calling it?”
It was the coward’s way out; Lawrence knew that, but out of sight of a more suitable resolution—
He drew from his pocket the letter Innocent had given him, unopened, as promised. Aldo snatched it from his hand, and predictably enough, Tedesco came closer so that he might read it for himself.
“Eminences,” Aldo read aloud. “I pray you will forgive the ruse; however, as we navigate this path described capriciously as ‘war,’ it is imperative all ‘Generals’ find themselves in the same camp. May these days prove challenging, yet not insurmountable beyond the strength our Father has given you. Yours faithfully, Inocente XIV.” Aldo set down the paper, eyes wild, as he cleared his throat. “To coin a popular phrase, Thomas— are you fucking kidding me?”
Lawrence wasn’t sure how to answer that. In theory, this could be easily solved: he could apologise, figure out how to explain to the Holy Father on his trip back to Rome, and they could all walk out or here with no slight served bar wasted time.
He quickly forgot that possibility when another sound broke the air: that of a door slamming, and unless Lawrence was entirely mistaken, locking. Hard.
For a brief moment, there was no discord between them. Lawrence lead the pack, but all three ran, or in Tedesco’s case, Shuffled With Haste, out of the chamber. At the door, Lawrence fumbled with the handle. It was slippery in his grasp; his palms, he then realised, had practically flooded with sweat. The door refused to budge either way, and it was then that Lawrence turned, to the men he’d just stitched up, and admitted:
“We’re locked in.”
“Well that’s great,” Aldo said, then nodded again towards the door. “And you're in here too. Feel like trying to break it down? That’s what you ‘deepfake’ guys do, right? Or was this not part of the plan?”
It’s a valid barb. Lawrence thinks he might even see it as such, if his throat didn’t feel as though it were rapidly closing.
“No it wasn’t—“ The handle is unlikely to give way to repeated, vehement jiggling, but Lawrence was determined to give it a go, “—‘part of the plan.’ Really, Aldo, you’re making this sound like— a bloody War Room.”
“Isn’t it?” Aldo said. His brows, Thomas noticed, had climbed up high enough to give the impression of an entirely un-bald man. “USA and Italy— how has that gone in the past, to your knowledge?”
“It’s unimportant.” Lawrence doesn’t mean to explode— but he does, a little, as what the youth might call ‘a treat.’ He abandons the door handle, and turns on Aldo instead, the new focus of his frustration, and honestly, fear. “Yes, I agreed to the Holy Father’s idea to second you two. Yes, we will talk about it in detail later, as our relationship demands, but not until I have worked out why I—“
The clearing of a throat interrupted him. It was Tedesco’s throat, of course, and when Lawrence looked over, it was to see that the Patriarch was holding the letter Aldo had set down.
“Forgive me, Monsignores,” Tedesco said. “There was a— I think you would say, a second page.”
He offered it to Lawrence, who took it, and recognised the writing immediately; though the rest had been printed, no doubt by Ray, this was unmistakably Innocent’s own hand.
Tomás, it read— I know your skills as I know your heart. Apologies - Vincent
Lawrence lowered the paper slowly. There was no other way to do so; between Aldo’s hurt and Tedesco’s amusement, as the bastard began laughing about it, hard enough to shake the foundations.
Both sentiments would fade with time, Lawrence was sure. After all, ‘time,’ as a concept, was about to consume them all.
“I’ll repeat,” Aldo said, dry as the Sahara. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Lawrence found he was inclined to agree.