Chapter Text
“Your Holiness?”
A strangely familiar voice permeates the thick haze inside Vincent’s sleep-drunk mind. He knows that voice, and yet, he can’t quite put a finger on whom it belongs to. Blurry images flicker through his head, half dream and half memory. White cassocks and blood soaked bandages, golden crosses and dust-covered books, quiet prayers and horrible screams, gentle blue eyes and gaping wounds.
Where am I? And who am I?
“Your Holiness, wake up.”
There’s the voice again, so familiar and dear, and yet foreign. He’s tired, so incredibly tired. He just wants to sleep for another minute, just one minute. His eyelids are too heavy for him to open them just yet, even though the disturbing images ghosting through his mind give him no reason to keep them shut.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, only a light, gentle touch, as though the person behind it doesn’t quite dare to reach for him more firmly. As though Vincent is something holy, a relic that mustn't be disturbed.
“Vincent.”
Vincent startles awake with a sharp inhale. He needs several long moments to orient himself. His temples throb angrily with a headache even the painkillers he took earlier couldn’t ease.
He stifles a groan as he sits up straight. He’s in his office, inside the Apostolic Palace. And he’s no longer Vincent, he’s Innocentius. A wild array of papers is spread out before him, and his computer has gone into standby, displaying photographs of Rome by night. Once again, he must have fallen asleep at his desk. How much time has he lost now? Hopefully it isn't too late in the evening yet. He still has so much work to do.
Before him, with his hand still slightly raised, though no longer touching him, stands Thomas Lawrence, Dean of the College of Cardinals and recently appointed Papal Advisor.
He looks at Vincent with a fond, though somewhat concerned expression, and it immediately causes a feeling of guilt to rise in Vincent's chest.
He senses the blood rush to his face at the embarrassment of Thomas catching him in this most vulnerable state for the third time this week. It's only Thursday.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” he mumbles and clears his throat. “I must have fallen asleep for a second.”
Thomas looks at him for a long moment. The concern in his expression remains.
“It's nine o’clock,” he says. “In the evening. You should get some rest.”
Vincent shakes his head.
“No, I still need to finish this homily I'm working on.”
He taps his keyboard and types in his password. His half-finished homily appears on the computer screen, and the cold blue light only aggravates his headache. He usually doesn't write his homilies digitally, but his wrist is sore from writing and typing on a keyboard hurts a little less than picking up a pen.
Thomas sighs.
“Can't that wait until tomorrow?” he asks.
The words on Vincent's screen blur into a grey mass. He blinks, trying to get his tired eyes to focus.
“No,” he says. “Tomorrow, I have to make calls and hold a mass, and I also need to–”
Thomas nods before he can finish his sentence.
“Alright. I understand,” he says.
The crease on his forehead deepens. Clearly, he isn't happy about Vincent's work ethic, which can most accurately be summarized with “working until his eyes fall shut and then a little more”. Vincent isn’t used to anything else. In Baghdad and Kabul, it never mattered whether he was tired or hungry. He had to function, to keep his parish alive. Now, his parish consists of several billion people, and his days have too few hours to even remotely achieve what he wants to. He won’t ever be able to bring enough humanitarian aid to war zones, he won’t prevent horrible war crimes from happening, he won’t resolve famines and religious conflicts. He’s one of the most powerful men in the world now, and yet, whatever he does, it will never be enough.
Vincent ducks his head, another wave of guilt washing over him for both not working sufficiently and for causing Thomas sorrows.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
Something in Thomas’ gaze softens. It always does when Vincent apologizes for something that doesn't quite lie within his power.
“Don't apologize,” Thomas says. “Have you eaten yet, your Holiness? I could bring you something from the kitchen.”
Vincent was hungry two or three hours ago, at his usual dinner time. He skipped the meal, however, not finding the time to get up from his desk to waste half an hour on eating. Now, he's way past the point of having an appetite and he's no longer hungry but nauseous.
“I'm not really hungry. Thank you, Thomas,” he declines the offer.
Thomas nods slowly and Vincent wishes he would leave, not because he doesn’t enjoy Thomas’ company but because he doesn’t like him seeing him like this, clearly overwhelmed by the mountain of tasks before him. What if one day, Thomas will come to the conclusion that they have elected the wrong man to become Pope after all?
“I could proofread your homily if that would help you,” Thomas says.
Vincent knows he means well, but it’s an offer he can’t accept. He has to do this alone. He never had the luxury of asking someone for help, and even now that he has it, he doesn’t like to make use of it.
“It's fine, Thomas, really. I'm used to getting little to no sleep.”
“At least let me bring you some coffee, then,” Thomas says with a quiet sigh, and Vincent can’t help the tiny smile tugging on his lips. If there’s anyone inside the Vatican walls who never fails to make him smile, it’s Thomas.
“If you insist,” Vincent says and Thomas reciprocates his smile.
“I do, your Holiness.”
He leaves for the kitchenette down the hallway, and while his steps grow quieter, Vincent turns his focus back onto his computer screen. He can barely read the words he has written. Maybe he needs glasses. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall and the computers’ ventilation system are terribly monotonous, and they lull him into an even more tired state in no time. He hasn’t typed a single word when his head sinks to his chest once again. He lacks the strength to keep it upright.
“Your Holiness.”
Vincent startles awake for the second time.
“Hm?”
He blinks, and there Thomas stands, a steaming cup in his hand. Vincent hasn’t heard him enter his office.
“Oh, forgive me,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “It seems I'm more tired than I thought I was.”
Thomas doesn’t hand him the cup. Instead, he puts it down on the far side of the desk and nods toward the door.
“Come on,” he says. “You need to rest.”
“No, I–” Vincent starts to protest, but he falls silent when he sees something in Thomas’ face harden.
“Holy Father, please.” There’s an edge to Thomas’ voice now, something between fondness and exasperation. “I do not mean to argue with you, but you are exhausted. You can't keep working like this.”
Vincent lets his head sink into his own hands. Unfortunately, his dazed mind, heavy with sleep, can’t come up with something to say in return.
“Will you let me accompany you to your apartment?” he hears Thomas ask, and he knows he has lost the fight for today.
He only nods. Thomas comes around to his side of the desk and turns off his computer. Vincent lets him. For a brief moment, Thomas’ hand lands on his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. Vincent’s first instinct is to lean into the touch, to let it ground and comfort him. Usually, he doesn’t like being touched, especially not without a prior warning. He needs to be the one to initiate it, or it will make something in his chest tighten up with a feeling he cannot name. For Thomas, he’ll make an exception. His touch, though Vincent doesn’t get to feel it often, is always gentle, tentative, careful not to startle him, as though he knows without being told of the reservations Vincent has. Vincent prefers not to question why he wishes Thomas would touch him more often.
Thomas’ hand disappears before Vincent can allow himself to enjoy the contact. Maybe it’s for the better.
He gets up from his chair and winces at the sharp pain shooting through his back. Luckily, Thomas doesn’t notice, or he would probably start fussing about him again. They leave the office and Vincent locks the door behind them before they make their way down the hallway and out into the courtyard.
It’s a ten minute walk from the Apostolic Palace to the Casa Santa Marta, at least with the shortcuts they have access to. He knows he could have it easier, by moving into the Palace, but he simply cannot bear the opulence for longer than he absolutely has to. Even his apartment in the guesthouse feels too large for just himself, but it’s less unbearable.
Vincent takes a deep breath of the Roman night air. It’s still warm at this hour, given it’s early July, and it doesn’t help with his headache, but still, breathing something other than the stale air inside his office is a relief.
Thomas walks beside him, hands clasped behind his back, a silent, steady presence. Vincent is grateful beyond words that he stayed. Not only today, but in general, after the Conclave. Vincent offered to accept his resignation the day after his inauguration, but Thomas declined.
“If you will have me, I wish to stay,” he said, giving Vincent a tentative smile. “If you should ever be in need of guidance or advice, never hesitate to come to me. I will be by your side.”
Vincent appointed him as Papal Advisor the next morning, and he has never regretted the decision.
Now, Thomas is the first to break the silence.
“How are you, your Holiness?”
Your Holiness. Even though everybody calls him by that title and he has grown used to it by now, it still stings bitterly to have Thomas call him that even when they’re alone. Vincent often asks him to call him by his given name, and Thomas does, when asked, but only reluctantly and it never lasts. He still remembers walking alongside him through the Gardens, shortly before the curfew during the Conclave. My dear Vincent, Thomas called him. It’s a childish need, probably, but he wishes that at least for Thomas, at least when it’s just the two of them, he could be Vincent again. He never thinks of Thomas as Cardinal Lawrence or His Eminence. For him, in his mind, he’s always Thomas. He wonders whether Thomas thinks of him as Vincent, at least sometimes.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what he wants or what he feels. He’s here to serve, and he’s no longer Vincent. He’s Innocent.
“I'm fine,” Vincent says, without thinking about the answer. He’s always fine. He doesn’t have the time nor the right to be anything but fine, and usually, Thomas leaves him be after that response. Today, however, he pushes on.
“No, I mean, how are you? Really?” he asks.
Vincent clenches his jaw. Sometimes, Thomas knows him better than he wants him to.
“I'm fine, Thomas, please don't worry about me,” he insists.
“It would be more than understandable if you found your new role exhausting, even overwhelming, at times. There wouldn't be any shame in that.”
Thomas’ voice is soft and gentle, as it always is when he talks to Vincent, and somehow, it makes the shame – yes, there is shame in being overwhelmed – sting even more bitterly.
“Please– don't,” he says. “I'm alright. I assure you.”
Finally, Thomas nods. Vincent can see the muscles in his jaw tighten and knows that he isn’t satisfied. Still, he gives in.
“I see,” he says. “Forgive me.”
They walk the rest of the way in silence. When they reach the stairs leading up to the Casa Santa Marta’s front door, Thomas stops, with his hands still behind his back.
“Good night, then, Your Holiness,” he says, and offers Vincent a little, tentative smile.
“Good night, Thomas,” Vincent says, halfway up the stairs already, and hopes his smile he gives Thomas in return will cover up how much he longs for a Good night, Vincent.
Thomas turns to leave and Vincent remains on the doorstep for a moment longer, watching his tall, dark silhouette disappear into the night. He envies him for his ability to do that – to disappear. Vincent would love to disappear. Just for a day or two. He envies him for being able to walk out the Vatican walls, just by himself, to his apartment that belongs to him and him alone. But again, this is a childish thought. Vincent averts his gaze and closes the door behind himself.
*
A few days later, Vincent finds himself in the conference room next to his office, with himself on one side of the table and Thomas and Aldo Bellini, his Secretary of State, on the other. They often meet here to discuss urgent matters or to plan apostolic journeys, but today, something about the set-up reminds him of tribunal. The thought makes his still lingering headache throb angrily. He reaches for the stack of paper before him and pushes it across the table towards Thomas and Bellini.
“I have the schedule for the next week here, and I've already started to prepare–” he starts but he stops mid-sentence when neither Thomas nor Bellini show any sign of looking at the paper, but instead exchange a meaningful glance Vincent can’t decipher. Bellini nods at Thomas, and the sight makes Vincent’s chest tighten up with anxiety. They know something he doesn’t.
“Your Holiness, we wanted to talk to you about something first,” Thomas says and leans forward in his chair, folding his hands on the table between them.
“About what?” Vincent asks, glance wandering between the two Cardinals in front of him. He can’t suppress the alarm in his voice.
“About your recent…working hours,” Thomas says.
His working hours? Vincent doesn’t understand. Maybe Thomas is implying that he isn’t managing to get enough work done? That must be it.
“What's the issue with that?” he asks nevertheless, preparing for the worst. He’s ready to go and hide in a corner, at least metaphorically.
Bellini and Thomas exchange another glance, and now, Bellini takes over.
“We think that you're working too hard,” he says. “You're clearly exhausted to the bone, and we don't want you to collapse in a week or two.”
Vincent frowns. That wasn’t what he expected at all. Since when is he working too hard? He has a dozen unfinished applications and proposals for humanitarian missions lying on his desk, his homily for this week’s general audience consists of nothing but the date and “Amen” yet and there’s an interreligious conference coming up next month that is nowhere near sufficiently planned. How does that classify as working too hard?
“I'm hardly doing anything at all,” he says, still frowning. “What do you mean?”
Thomas exhales audibly.
“Your Holiness, you get up every morning at five to work before mass. And I rarely see you leaving your office before nine or ten at night. I don't mean to criticize or patronize you, please don't take this the wrong way. But you won't be able to keep that up for much longer.”
And? It’s been years since Vincent last slept more than four hours a night. He’s used to it. Besides, all the paperwork, all the shaking-hands and smiling for cameras hardly qualifies as work. Building shelters for his parish with his bare hands, tending to the sick and wounded, standing in line for food deliveries under the burning Kabul sun so that the orphaned children have something to eat, or translating the Holy Scripture into Dari by hand so that he can read the Lord’s work to his flock in their tongue – that is work. Not whatever it is he’s doing now.
“Why not?” he asks, not to provoke, but because he genuinely doesn’t understand.
“Because for the last six days, you've fallen asleep at your desk,” Thomas says, with his gentle voice that somehow seems to be reserved for Vincent only. “You barely eat, and I don't know if you're properly sleeping at all. The Swiss Guard told me they found you passed out by the turtle pond the other day.”
Tears start stinging in Vincent’s eyes before he can help it. Can’t he be at peace anywhere? Not even at the turtle pond, with his quiet, four-legged friends, they leave him alone.
“That's not true, I was just resting my eyes for a minute,” he says, and feels himself slip into a defensive mode. “Am I not allowed to do that?”
Another glance between Thomas and Bellini. I told you so, Thomas’ expression says. Vincent hates to know that they have talked about him before this meeting.
“Please don't perceive this as a criticism or an attack, your Holiness. We merely worry about your well-being,” Thomas then says.
“My well-being is nothing you need to be concerned with,” Vincent replies, trying his best to keep his voice level and not snap at him. He knows Thomas means well. But right now, he can’t stand his concern. He doesn’t deserve it.
Once more, Bellini takes over.
“It's summer now. Usually, the Holy Father takes a break for a few weeks and retreats to Castel Gandolfo. You could do the same if–” he says, but he doesn’t get to finish. Vincent doesn’t want to hear where this is going.
“No!”
Bellini flinches at Vincent’s angry hiss, but still he keeps trying.
“It would probably do you good to be away from work for a little while.”
Vincent shakes his head. His fingers dig into his thigh underneeds the desk. He left his rosary in his office, and now he has nothing to hold on to or fidget with to calm himself down.
“I can't,” he says. “I have so much to do, I can't just leave now. My parish needs me!”
My parish needs me. This sentence is like a mantra to him, one that kept him going, kept him alive, for the past twenty years. It slips across his lips before he can help it, before the thought can catch up to him that he doesn’t really have a parish anymore.
“You have assistants and secretaries who can take care of that in the meantime,” Thomas says, still perfectly calm. “You aren't alone, your Holiness. You have an entire state standing by, ready to assist you.”
I don’t want assistance, Vincent thinks, I have to do this on my own. He despises the thought of having people work for, not with him. These thoughts don’t make it across his lips, however, giving Thomas another opportunity to keep digging at his defense line.
“You haven't had a single day off ever since your elevation. You’re always surrounded by hundreds of people, and I understand it can get too much. Wouldn’t you like to be by yourself for a little while?”
Vincent feels his chest tighten up further. To be by himself sounds like the worst thing someone could do to him. He hasn’t been truly alone for years, and the lonesomeness of his position is hardly bearable as it is. Meetings and masses during the day scare the loneliness away for a little while, but if he’s also stripped of those now, he doesn’t know what to do with himself and his thoughts. He’s too much of a coward to be alone with them.
“You won't come with me?” he asks, quietly, and feels his shoulders slump forward before he can stop them. He’s embarrassed by his own pathetic question.
Can Thomas stop giving Bellini these meaningful glances? It’s driving Vincent insane.
“Usually the Holy Father retreats to Castel Gandolfo by himself,” Thomas says tentatively. “You will have the Swiss Guard with you, of course, and a staff to care for all your needs.”
Vincent shakes his head. If Thomas isn’t coming with him, he won’t go. Thomas is the only one he could trust to scare the loneliness away.
“I'm not going,” he says.
Something in Thomas’ eyes softens. He leans closer, as close as the desk allows him to.
“Vincent, we worry about you,” he says. “I worry about you.”
Vincent, he calls him. Unprompted for once, and with that soft warmth in his eyes that makes Vincent want to seek peace by resting his head on his shoulder, and that makes his stomach flutter with a yet unnamed sensation.
“That is very kind, but unnecessary,” Vincent says, even though he can feel his resistance waver. It’s ridiculous how Thomas calling him by his given name suffices to achieve that.
“Would you agree to a short break?” Thomas asks. “Three weeks or so, at Castel Gandolfo. We would make sure that everything here is taken care of exactly like you wish.”
“No.”
Vincent’s fingers hurt from working them into the flesh of his thighs, covered by the white silk of his cassock. Too clean, too soft, too white.
Thomas sighs.
“Forgive me for my choice of words, you won't be of use to this Church if you collapse from exhaustion half a year into your papacy.”
That blow hits Vincent right in the core. You won’t be of use. Thomas knows exactly what he needs to say to press his sore buttons. The purpose of his entire existence is to be of use. To his parish, to the Church, to God.
Finally, his resistance collapses like a house of cards.
“One week,” he mumbles, and feels like he is going to throw up. He hates giving in to anyone, even if it’s Thomas.
“Two.”
Oh, they are bargaining now?
“Ten days,” Vincent says, and firmly holds Thomas’ gaze until he nods.
“Alright,” Thomas agrees. “Ten days.”
Thomas and Bellini sink back in their respective chairs, seemingly content with what they have achieved. Vincent knows they think they're doing him a favor, and at this point, Vincent doesn't see the point in fighting back. What is he supposed to say? Please don't make me go alone? I'm terrified of being by myself and if I'm not working, horrible memories and dreams will haunt me? Please, Thomas, come with me, so that I have someone to keep me distracted? Please come along, so that I can finally have some time with you, just you, away from this golden cage?
All of these points are self-centered, egotistical, and thus, irrelevant.
“But I can't leave until Friday,” he says. “I have the general audience on Wednesday and on Thursday I–”
Bellini raises his hand in a calming gesture.
“I know. It's alright. Friday is fine.”
Vincent clenches his jaw. So it's settled. Hopefully, they will leave him be after those ten days. He just has to get through ten days somehow. Maybe he can smuggle some work along with him.
“Can we talk about the conference now?” he asks, and his voice comes out sounding way more strained than he wants it to.
Thomas nods, and offers him a soft smile.
“Of course, Holy Father.”
*
The papal residence at Castel Gandolfo is a magnificent spot on God’s earth. Set on a slight hilltop, the century-old, ochre stone buildings overlook the surrounding town and farmland, stretching out all the way to the horizon. From the outside, it is reminiscent of the Apostolic Palace in Rome, though less opulent, somewhat matching its location in the countryside. The interior, however, is barely less grand than that of the Apostolic Palace. Marble floors, heavy draperies, gold-framed paintings and high ceilings that make a single human feel shockingly small. It’s beautiful, it’s breathtaking, and most importantly, it’s too much.
Vincent arrives at the residence on a Friday afternoon, accompanied by a dozen Swiss Guards and a handful of staff members. None of them, he knows personally. He remembers a few of their names, but he hasn’t spoken more than a few words with them, all of them mere cordialities. The young Swiss Guards are too intimidated by him, or rather by the office he holds, to allow for a proper conversation, and the staff Vincent doesn’t want to disturb.
Even after six months in the Vatican, all his belongings still fit into a single suitcase. Of course the staff brings more than that, his white cassocks, for example, and another few suitcases Vincent doesn’t even know what they contain. In his own, personal one, he brings only his old, beat-up copy of the Holy Scripture, his rosary, his civilian clothes, a few books, headphones, a notebook and a pen, toiletries, and some candles. It’s all he truly considers his. The cassocks, the other clothes, all the amenities of this residence and of his apartment in Rome are borrowed. Borrowed for life, but still borrowed.
The first hour, he spends unpacking what little he has brought with him. The actual unpacking takes him no more than ten minutes, but he drags it out as long as he can, rearranging every candle at least four times, just so that he has something to do.
Then, he wanders around his temporary home, somewhat aimlessly. The apartment is way too large for him. It’s much larger than his relatively humble space in the Casa Santa Marta, containing one larger bedroom and two guest rooms, a study, a kitchen and a large dining and sitting area. Vincent counts eleven rooms in total, and ten of them are superfluous. He could do with a bedroom and an adjourning bathroom, maybe a table and a chair, and a stove to cook on, all of that in a single room, preferably. It’s too much space, and he feels so terribly lost and small in it. The high ceilings are overpowering him, and paradoxically, the wideness of the rooms threatens to crush him. He feels ungrateful for the thought, and he asks God for forgiveness, but he hates it here.
While he sits on his bed, staring at the marble floor beneath his feet, a thought occurs to him. Technically, this is all his, isn’t it? He can do whatever he wants with it, can’t he?
Vincent gets up and walks over into the adjourning study, a plan forming in his mind. He takes the wooden chair standing by the window and moves it into the bedroom. Next, the desk. It’s a lot heavier than the chair, and he has to drag it across the floor to get it to move, but eventually, he manages to maneuver it into the bedroom, as well. Vincent moves on to the sitting room next. He doesn’t like the couch. It looks uncomfortable and has way too many golden ornaments on it to be to his liking. The armchair next to it looks acceptable, however, and so Vincent half drags, half carries it to the bedroom, as well. Slowly but certainly, the room is starting to look less empty. He only hopes that none of the staff members will come in and catch the Pope moving furniture. He’s not in the mood for explanations.
In the kitchen, he spots an electric kettle and a coffee machine. He takes them both to the bedroom and places them on a small wooden table he retrieves from another room. Two cups and a spoon, coffee, tea bags and some sugar follow suit.
Finally, he shuts the doors to the adjourning rooms, leaving him with only a bedroom – now with a relatively wild array of furniture that doesn’t quite match – and a bathroom. Vincent looks around, admiring his work. It’s still too large and empty, but it’s an improvement at least.
He walks over to one of the windows and opens it, letting the summer air stream in. It’s hot, but he likes it better than the artificially cooled air inside the bedroom. From his bedroom, he has a good view out onto the surrounding gardens. Gravel paths and orderly trimmed lawns and flowerbeds, as far as the eye can see. Objectively, it’s beautiful. It surely cost the gardeners hundreds of hours to plant and maintain. And still, Vincent prefers to see God’s creation untamed, growing the way it was intended to, instead of being limited to orderly squares and rectangles.
He shakes his head, realizing he’s sounding unbearably ungrateful and fussy even to his own ears. Here he sits, the head of the Catholic Church, in one of the most beautiful places he has ever seen, and all his mind manages to come up with are calculations of how many months of food this room's interior would have bought his flock in Kabul and the overwhelming feeling of anxiety, knowing he has to spend the night, and nine more after that, in this bedroom.
Vincent reaches for the rosary on his nightstand and heads for the door. He will do what always helps to ease his nerves – walking and praying. Not knowing his way around the garden yet, he heads out down a random pathway between olive trees and orderly trimmed lawns. The familiar sensation of the beads between his fingers, the repetitive prayer, and the steady sound of his steps on the gravel pathways help to lull him into a meditative state, a state in which his mind is quiet and he feels like he's closer to God than usual.
Despite the fact that he misses his parish, he has to admit that he greatly enjoys the ability to walk outside, in nature, for as long as his heart desires and with the signs of his faith out in the open. Walking through a lush garden, mind deeply sunken into prayer, is indeed a much more pleasant experience than to pace back and forth inside the damp, windowless room in his mission in Kabul.
He only stops walking when his feet are sore, he has lost count of how many times he has prayed his entire rosary, and his stomach is growling with hunger. At least the hours spent with God have succeeded in calming the tremor in his hands and elevating the sharp pressure on his chest.
After dinner, he sinks onto his knees beside his bed to pray anew.
Father, please give me strength to endure this time, he asks God. Please let me find a purpose in these days that seem wasted to me now, a purpose that serves you, even if I cannot see it yet. Please give me guidance and show me a way to carry the burden imposed on me. I feel you with me, Lord, always, and yet, I feel so terribly alone. Forgive me for these thoughts I harbor, I know I shouldn't be so ungrateful. I know loneliness is the price one has to pay for being the Holy Father. I only wish that I could do more, and I wish that I knew exactly how to do what you ask of me.
In the end, he spends almost an hour on his knees. The ache in his joints, that sharpens when he gets up, he registers only remotely, far too used to it to care.
He's tired, but not tired enough to pass out from exhaustion just yet. That's another habit he can't get out of his system: Vincent simply can't “go to sleep”. He can't turn off the light, close his eyes and wait for his body to drift off. No, he can only sleep when his eyes fall shut from utter exhaustion, when keeping them open is physically impossible. Hence why for the past few weeks, he passed out at his desk as often as he did.
He reads for half an hour, and finally, the letters start to blur before his eyes and the words stop making sense. It takes another few minutes, and then, his exhaustion overpowers him.
On good nights, which he doesn't have too often, his mind grants him a deep, dreamless sleep. Tonight, however, isn't a good night. He dreams, vividly and so realistically he doesn't know whether he's really asleep or has somehow ended up in Kabul again, on his back beneath the ruins of his mission. He hears the voices of all those he couldn't save, calling out for him, begging for his help, asking why he has deserted him when they needed him most. Vincent can't move a single muscle, and no word will leave his dry lips, no matter how hard he tries to scream through the tons of debris and concrete that he's still here, that he'll always be with them. His tongue won't even form a prayer.
He should be used to this kind of dreams now, he has them almost every night. And still, the shock and fear he feels are always as powerful as the first time. Vincent wishes he didn't have to sleep at all. When he sleeps, he has no control, and has to endure whatever his mind choses to dig up from the deep ditch of repressed memories to torture him with.
It’s a relief to finally wake up, even though he’s shaking and drenched in sweat. At least he’s in the real world again, and his body does as he wishes instead of remaining frozen. It’s still dark outside, so it can’t be much later than four in the morning, at the latest, but Vincent knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep. The clock on the bedroom wall is ticking quietly, and through the open window, he can hear the sounds of the nearby street and a few cicadas. There are much less cars driving here, in this small town, than in Rome, especially at this nightly hour.
Vincent reaches for his rosary on his nightstand. He doesn’t pray it, instead, he simply holds it in his quivering hands to feel the worn beads underneath his fingers, his anchor that keeps him from drowning in a sea of memories and anxiety. It's all so much worse here than in Rome. In Rome, he always has work nearby, and he knows that in a few hours, he can return to his desk or hold a mass, and it will give him a purpose and something to do. Here, the vastness of ten wasted days feels crushing.
A thought occurs to him before he can stop it, one that ghosts through his mind increasingly often lately.
I wish Thomas was here.
Vincent doesn't pay attention to these thoughts if he can avoid it, not ready to face the implications and not willing to waste time on thinking about his own wants and needs. But now that he lies here, alone in this too-large room, he wishes for that calm, steady presence by his side that never fails to ground him. He longs to lean closer to Thomas, like he always does instinctively when he's next to him, like he's pulled towards him by a strong magnet, to rest his head on his shoulder, which he has never dared to, or to sink into his arms and let Thomas shield him from the world for just a few seconds of weakness.
Vincent never harbored the desire to be this close to another person, and he prefers to neglect the question of why he finds that desire to be overwhelming when it comes to Thomas, or why his heart tends to skip a few beats when Thomas looks at him with that soft fondness in his eyes that he seems to be keeping reserved for Vincent only.
He's too tired to push the thoughts of Thomas aside as he usually does, and to his own surprise, Vincent drifts off to sleep for another hour, thinking of blue eyes and a soft, crooked smile.