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The bright side, Rosario considered as she and Bellini made their somber way back to the Vatican, was that Dean Lawrence was alive and coherent.
That was rather the extent of it.
He’d been thin, ragged, unshaven, and dressed only in pajamas and a woolen sweater. And his overall manner and mood…
They met Innocent in his office after his meeting with the Dicastery for the Evangelization of Peoples, reluctant to deliver their unhappy report, but glad to look to him for guidance.
“He wouldn’t come back with us. He was incredibly weak and despondent; I could just barely get him to eat something and have some tea,” Bellini admitted. “I can usually get him to talk to me, at least to a degree, but this, this was different,” his voice croaked on the last word, and he placed a trembling hand over his mouth.
Rosario took up the line of communication. “I think he received some… very distressing information the night he stayed at the hospital. Of course any details are protected by privacy, and he didn’t disclose anything particular to either of us. But he seemed rather… resigned. He deeply needs your support now, Vincent.”
There was silence for a long moment, before the heir of Saint Peter took a deep breath.
“Can you arrange for Sister Josepha to come watch over Dolores, Rosario? And please ask Jean-Pierre to clear my schedule for the afternoon.”
“Of course.” And she moved to do so, observing him out of the corner of her eye as she sent the requested texts. When he started to unfasten his pellegrina and unbutton his cassock, she turned her back firmly to give him privacy, even though she knew he kept his civilian clothes on underneath.
He was going to do it, she realised. The Pope was going to leave the Vatican unannounced, unplanned, unscrutinized. Possibly even unprotected, if he insisted on going full stealth. And she would help him.
“Will you take me to him, both of you?” Vincent asked quietly.
The Secretary of State blinked owlishly at him for a moment, before inhaling deeply, giving a little shake.
“I… yes, of course, Your Holiness.”
Rosario just nodded; Vincent knew her answer well enough by now.
Thus it was that the Supreme Pontiff, entirely devoid of vestments and wearing a cap and face mask, followed the Secretary of State and a Daughter of Charity out of the Vatican, trailed by a single plainclothes Swiss Guard (sworn to secrecy) and preceded by a reluctantly-recruited Monsignor O’Malley and Sister Agnes drawing attention away from the Holy Father’s escape with a sudden logistical concern.
They somehow made it back to Lawrence’s flat without incident, and once they were inside and on the correct floor facing his door, Rosario and Aldo knocked and let themselves in again, while Vincent politely asked the guard to stand watch outside the door (Rocco was plainly quite reluctant to do so, but followed the Holy Father’s request regardless.) Vincent felt his stomach drop further when he smelled the faint mustiness in the air, saw how dark the rooms were, how un-lived-in the space felt, oppressive with despair.
“Thomas? We’re back, and I hope you’re awake, because you have another visitor,” Aldo announced, motioning Vincent towards the bedroom door.
A reedy semi-hoarse voice answered from the room. “Aldo? Sister? Who–?”
“Hello, Thomas.”
A thin gasp was the initial response, then…
“Vincent?” The single word carried a tone of combined disbelief, hope, and fear.
“Yes, it’s me.” He stepped up to the slightly-open bedroom door. “May I come in?”
He must have received a silent affirmation, because he gently pushed the door open further and stepped cautiously inside, closing it almost all the way behind him. Likely for propriety, Rosario considered.
It did leave Bellini and her in a rather awkward circumstance, however.
*******
“How are you, dear Thomas?” Vincent asked, approaching the bedside and pulling up a handy wooden chair, taking a seat. His friend wore a sweater over what he assumed to be pajamas, his hair looked rather uncombed, and he had a closed journal, some loose papers, and a pen lying on the bed beside him.
Thomas swallowed, only able to look at the other man a few seconds at a time. “I’m…” He shrugged. “I’m getting by.”
He heard a faint snort from the other room, but said nothing. The pope, however, was not so easily satisfied.
“What has you so troubled, Thomas?” he asked gently. “Besides your wrist, of course. Are you ill? Why have you not come to see us?”
Thomas’s lips pressed into a thin line, the line between his eyebrows deepening as he frowned in hesitation.
Vincent reached over and laid a tender hand on his forearm, just about his cast. “Please, whatever your burden is, share it with me.”
Thomas’ shoulders tensed. “You already carry so many burdens…”
“And helping to carry yours would give me the comfort of understanding,” he replied firmly.
This did not seem to comfort Thomas, however, who bent forward, his breaths becoming heavier, shaking his head.
“Forgive me… very well,” he whispered.
“Of course. Go ahead, at your own pace.”
Thomas took a deep breath, folding his hands together in his lap.
“When I was at the Gemelli, they were casting my wrist, and I just – I had the most terrible sense of… foreboding deep inside. Like I suddenly knew something was wrong. I requested some additional imaging.”
“And what did they discover, Thomas?”
The other man sighed deeply, looking down at the covers over his legs.
“You know about my cancer a while back?”
“Yes, we’ve spoken of it. Why… Thomas, no-”
“I’m sorry. They found what they described as ‘concerning spots” on my films from the night in the hospital. They want me to go back in to confirm and look further, but I know what it is. What it must be,” Thomas added quietly.
Vincent shook his head insistently. “You don’t know, that’s why they want you to go back. It could be anything! It could be benign!”
“But I know what it most likely is, and I simply can’t take the risk!”
“What risk?”
“Dolores!”
Vincent was momentarily silenced by his outburst, and Thomas ducked his head in remorse, until he continued at a lower volume.
“I can’t take the risk of visiting her, coming in contact with her. She could attempt to cure it, and Lord knows what that could do to her!” He was silent for a moment, outside of his heavy breathing as he attempted to contain himself again. “I can never hold her again,” he whispered, his face twisted in devastation. “Never let her wrap her tiny hand around my finger, never kiss her precious little forehead. The risk of hurting her with my illness would be too much to bear. And… at my age, I doubt it will take long. I want you both to be able to acclimate to my absence.”
“That’s not fair, Thomas,” Vincent said, shaking his head. “Just because you can’t touch her while you’re ill doesn’t mean you can’t see her at all, or her you. And with treatment you could still have years left.”
“I’m not getting the treatment this time.”
“Excuse me?” His tone was harder than Rosario had ever heard it, harder even than while he was meeting the United States’ president for the first time.
“I remember the pain, Vincent. How weak and powerless I was. I don’t want that again! And the nausea… you think I don’t eat much now, I could barely keep anything down during the treatment. And at this age, what’s the point?” He sighs, as Vincent continues to stare at him as if frozen, his face not giving anything away.
“I… I know she’s far too young to form conscious long-lasting memories, but… I’d like for her to have something from me besides my zucchetto.” He held out to Vincent a letter in an envelope closed with a wax seal. Vincent’s face hardened.
“No.” Thomas looked up at him, hurt and betrayed, his hand slowly falling.
I won’t give it to her if you won’t even accept treatment. If you won’t even attempt to fight this.”
“Vincent, please. You think treatment would have a decent chance of success at my age? This is clearly God telling me my time has come. Please don’t make it harder than it already is.”
“I don’t believe that,” Vincent insisted. “I think God wants something to change, not for you to give up.”
Thomas gave him a doleful look. “Is that God’s will, or yours?”
Vincent pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes taking on a suspiciously damp shine.
“Yes, it’s mine,” he whispered. “Yes, I’m letting myself be selfish this time. God led me to Rome, and to the college electing me pope, and I accepted it even though it was the farthest from what I wanted. Even though it felt like a prison.” He paused, swallowing. “God determined that I was to be a parent, to… to bear a child, without permission or warning. And I love her so much now, I couldn’t bear it if–” his voice broke on the last word, and Thomas was grateful he didn’t continue further, “but – but I couldn’t have made it through to that point without you. I wouldn’t have gotten through the first days, or maybe even the birth itself, without you. So yes, I’m being selfish. I’m asking you to fight this, to survive. If not for yourself, then for me, and for our daughter.”
Thomas looked up at him in shock, love and heartbreak immediately competing on his face. “Vincent…”
“Are you going to try to claim that you don’t love her as your own? Remembering that lying is a sin.” He didn’t mention any lies he might have been telling, to Rosario through omission and to himself blatantly.
“Of course I love her,” Thomas whispered, looking down at his bedspread. “How could I not? She came from you. I heard her first cries, I held her in my hands mere moments after she was born. But I’m still not…”
“Joseph had no part in Christ’s conception. Did he not raise Him, regardless?”
“Don’t,” Thomas pleaded. “Don’t compare me to him, I’m not worthy.”
“Everyone who’s seen you with her knows that to be false,” Vincent insisted. “Everyone but you.”
Thomas looked up at him tentatively.
“Just like you’re the only one who can’t see that you’re worthy of love,” Vincent added firmly.
“We’re all worthy of God’s love,” Thomas replied rotely, letting his eyes fall to the surroundings of his bedroom.
“Not just God’s,” Vincent whispered. He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to Thomas’ cheek. Just brushing the corner of his mouth. A chaste, but not remotely brotherly, kiss.
Thomas choked on a sob, his expression shattering. “You can’t…”
“I can love anyone my heart chooses, thank you,” Vincent replied, putting an arm around Thomas’ shoulders and leaning his temple against the Englishman’s. “You’re not obligated to reciprocate, obviously. But if I’m correct…”
“Of course I love you,” Thomas wept. “Again, how could I not? You’re you. But you’re the Pope, and I am your Dean. We both swore ourselves to God. And little Dolores, she’s safest in the Vatican, but you both can only stay because you remain pope, and that can’t happen if you give yourself to another person.”
“I’m already giving myself to her, what difference does one other person make?”
“That’s different. Her creation happened despite you not breaking your vows. She’s your child, your devotion to her is only natural,” Thomas insisted.
“And my love for you came as naturally as breathing,” Vincent replied firmly, juxtaposed with his expression full of warmth and tenderness. “Christ commanded us to love, Thomas. I’m not going to feel shame for obeying. Not anymore. If you’re still willing to walk this road with me, we can determine for ourselves what we can allow and are comfortable with, within the frames of our duties and our vows. That’s all I ask, for you to walk with me, with our girl, in love and trust.”
After a long moment, Thomas looked up at him, his eyes gleaming. “I want that. I want it more than anything. I can try to fight,” he whispered.
Vincent sagged against him in relief, clasping him tightly in his arms.
“Gracias, mi amor. Gracias, Dios mío.”
They stayed that way for several long moments. When they’d gathered themselves enough to leave Thomas’ room, they found Rosario and Aldo suspiciously engrossed in Thomas’ tea collection, their backs firmly turned to the bedroom door.
“Mm, Rooibos, now that’s a bold choice compared to his normal fare,” Aldo remarked slightly too loudly, considering that the kitchen had been utterly silent mere moments before they entered.
“I’m seeing that, a great deal of English Breakfast and Earl Grey,” Rosario nodded, placing a hand on her chin as if she were contemplating a keen puzzle and not pretending that she and the Secretary of State hadn’t just been listening to an intimate and vulnerable conversation between the Pope and his Dean.
“You both can stop pretending that you didn’t hear what we said,” Vincent offered with slight amusement as the two guiltily turned to face him. “And you can rest easy, Aldo, since we have not truly broken any rules.”
“Yet,” Aldo muttered. Rosario didn’t feel bad about lightly elbowing him in the side, and he looked suitably chastised for a moment.
Vincent turned to Thomas. “Well, Thomas, how soon can you be ready?”
“Ready, my dear?”
“To come home with me,” Vincent clarified.
Thomas beamed at him, his eyes shining.
********
When Thomas went in for his follow-up, they explained the “anomalous” readings from his overnight stay, how they didn’t match the images from his previous bout that his regular oncologist had sent them for comparison, prompting them to redo the imaging and blood tests. And wouldn’t you know it, supposedly the positive screenings from the first night were a fluke; false positives. They were now seeing no indications that the cancer returned.
He had a clean bill of health, once his wrist healed. “It looks like the Lord still has more in store for you,” the oncologist said brightly.
Lawrence looked like a man who was just starting to believe it.