Archive of Our Own

The moon beamed brilliantly above Rome, the soft light shining Lawrence’s path on the brisk Saturday evening in April. Loose ends regarding the Easter events for that Resurrection Sunday had left the cardinal walking throughout the city, having to leave his usual post beside the Pope. Part of him wanted to retire to his apartment and get an early night's rest before the busy festivities, but he knew his heart would not rest until he gazed upon the Holy Father just once for the day.

Falling in the Pope’s footsteps, Benítez took to a quaint apartment in the Casa di Santa Marta, refusing the grand rooms afforded to his new status, even choosing to work in his tiny apartment if he could, opposed to the large desks the papacy provided. He had looked so very small when he had requested Thomas to accompany him to observe the offered accommodations.

“I am no king. What would I do with such a space?”, He spoke so simply with that soft smile that seemed to squeeze all the air out of Lawrence’s lungs. It was so easy for him to stay so modest, so humble, to display all the various virtues that awed the cardinals to his vote without him even trying. It was no wonder God in all his glory swayed them to choose him to lead the Church.

Even in the new footing, Benítez had been taking on his role splendidly, charming many across the world and toting messages of peace and compassion. He made it look so easy, so effortless, but Lawrence was not blind to the way the man put all of himself and time into the church, into God’s messages. So hardworking and altruistic; Thomas often wondered how he looked as lively as he often did.

The image of the man in thoughts makes him look up, his destination in front of him. His eyes searched for the window that belonged to his muse.

Soft lamplight coming from open curtains betrays the Holy Father’s stubborn diligence, working past the hours required as he did most nights. Shaking his head fondly, Thomas finds the corners of his lips tugging as he enters the building, the people at the front not batting an eye to the cardinal’s arrival, so happenstance they’ve joked he might as well live there with how much he comes by.

He taps his knuckles lightly on the door before a kind voice calls out for him to come inside. Slipping his shoes off and taking off his coat, he enters, motioning for His Holiness to sit when he stands, the signal fruitless against Vincent’s hospitality as he takes the few steps across the room towards him.

“Your Emminence.”, He greets warmly, smoothing his pristine papal cassock still adorned for the day almost shyly before peering up at Thomas with those deep dark eyes. “Forgive me, I had thought you retired for the night already. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Exactly, which is why you should already be in bed.”, Thomas says in fond amusement, unable to even attempt to scold the man. He reaches out on instinct, Vincent only taking a moment before he slides his hand over his, doing little to stop Thomas from grazing his lips over his knuckles in greeting. His skin is warm, and for a selfish moment Thomas wants to never let go. He drops the hand. “Your Holiness.”

“I’ve told you plenty of times, I am just Vincent.”, He says with a slight shake of his head, lifting the kissed hand to brush a lock of his jet-black hair behind his ear before touching his knuckles over his cheeks that are slightly flushed. Perhaps it was too hot in the room?

“Dear Vincent.”, Thomas amends, moving past the man to go to the window. “May I?”

“If you are warm.”, Vincent blinks, watching as he lifts the glass, some of the night breeze entering the room. He walks next to the cardinal behind the desk, eyes gazing at the papers scattered over it. “I was doing a little bit of writing, and doing one last look over my words for tomorrow…”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve refused your speech writer again…”, Thomas pales. He can already remember the nights before the prompted celebration marking Vincent’s hundredth day in the office, the Pope dismissing the speech prepared for him as too impersonal, choosing to spend night and day agonizing over the perfect words to say instead.

It of course, turned out impeccable with Vincent and his aptitude for finding the right words, only the staunchest of fundamentalists grumbling about it, but Thomas can still recall the nerves and stress the new Pope tried not to show as he sat at the very desk they were at now.

“We collaborated this time.”, Vincent hummed. “I believe I was too vain to believe I could write something better than a professional. I reflected upon it in prayer. Was it really that terrible?”

“Nonsense!”, Thomas says in alarm, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It was impeccable. The crowd was receptive to every word you said. I only worry for your sanity.”

“Fair point, Emminence. I’m sure you will be relieved to hear the speech is complete. Although, perhaps it could benefit from one last set of eyes.” Gathering the papers on the desk, he motions them towards Lawrence before he takes them back suddenly, putting them to his chest. “Ah, forgive me, you must be tired, I shouldn’t ask any more of you. Here, please take these sandwiches. The Sisters, bless them, were kind enough to bring them up to me but I’ve neglected to eat them.”

“My dear Vincent, please, calm down. I came here of my own accord to be of any help.”, Thomas soothed before he motioned for the man to sit, dragging over the other chair to his side before sitting with him. “Now, allow me to read over your words, I assure you it will be no trouble at all.”

The relieved smile the action gained balms any tired bone in Lawrence’s body, his hands graciously accepting the writing. The little nudge of the plate closer towards him in the process fails to go unnoticed.

“I ate before I came.”, Thomas says honestly. It had been a tradition for the two of them to share meals when they could, but their busy schedules that day could not afford them that. Still, he could hear Vincent’s lecture about taking care of himself in his head and stopped to get a bite of what was being offered in the Church kitchens. From the look on the Pope’s face, such matters would not change his mind in offering Thomas the food. He nearly rolls his eyes fondly at the way Vincent lights up when he picks one of the little sandwiches up and takes a nibble. He looks back to the paper before his thoughts could wander.

It is a very eloquent message of finding hope in the resurrection of Christ, in overcoming challenges with the word of God. He can’t help but smile a bit at the way Vincent shines through clearly, knowing he must have been working very diligently with the speech writer, even mentioning specific conflicts going on that he was praying for peace for.

“Excellent.”, Thomas breathes after he’s done, looking up and catching the way Vincent’s head was tilted towards him, as if he was awaiting the very moment Thomas spoke his opinion. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I am glad.”, Vincent bows his head. “It is a very important time. For the Son and the Father as well as all the pilgrims coming all the way here. I would hate to disappoint.”

“Surely you don’t mean that. Every public appearance has made the people more and more sure of you as Pope.” They adored him., he doesn’t say. He knows such references to fame and idolism would make the poor man ill.

“Many are unhappy with my words.”

“Not as many as you believe. Pleasing everyone is an impossible task. If you can get even the Patriarch of Venice to engage in discussion with you, I’d say you are doing more than just fine.”, Lawrence hums, trying to hide his annoyance at the thought of the man. His visits with Vincent never failed to grate at his nerves, yet he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving them alone together.

Vincent laughs a bit at the comparison, the sound making Lawrence still, his own reflected chuckle coming out so easily.

“You have such a way with words, Thomas. Perhaps you should have written the speech.”

“Surely not!”, Thomas gawks, only serving in making the Pope laugh even more. He sighs fondly. “You tease me, your Holiness.”

“I apologize.”, Vincent’s laughter calms, a sincere smile on his face. “Thank you for stopping by. Your visits always give me strength.”

“It is nothing to be thanked for. My day felt incomplete without seeing you.”, The honest words slipped from his tongue, a wash of embarrassment following like cold ice. Why did he say that? It was too needy, too much. For a cardinal to say such things to the Holy Father himself…

Vincent looks at him with a wide-eyed look that both makes Lawrence’s heart swell and give him the urge to escape from the open window itself. Then, brilliantly, the Pope smiles.

“Mine as well, Your Eminence.”

There’s a silent pause after, just the two of them and the soft sounds of the night from the cracked window, the magnetism of Vincent’s charcoal eyes making him unable to look away.

Thomas still could recall the first time he saw the Pope, then a lost cardinal unsure of his place, almost electing to leave the conclave before it even started in fear he didn’t belong. His soft voice and boyish looks as well as his too-thin frame made Thomas almost protective of him then, and even still with Vincent’s new status and confidence in the public, he still wished to take him under his wing, to be of any help he could. It was why he stayed, all those thoughts of leaving unheard of in the flame of hope that Vincent has lit inside of him.

God had brought Vincent to him. No, not just him, to think that would be too selfish. He brought him to the conclave, to the people of the faith. Every cardinal in that room had felt it too. There was no one else but him who could be the Vicar of Christ.

“Now is my turn to urge you to eat. You will need your strength for tomorrow. Everybody will be wishing to speak to you.”, Thomas breaks the silence, nudging the plate over to him, not satisfied until the man picked up one of the slices with a quiet thanks.

“I hope you will be there as well.”

“Always.”, Thomas promises. His eyes wander the desk, a letter stopped midsentence laid underneath an open pen. Vincent sees the path of his sight as he nibbles on the food and smiles.

“It is a letter to Kabul. I don’t mean to give them special treatment…but since I left so suddenly-”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Vincent. You must miss them terribly.”, Thomas says in understanding. He recalls their first conversation, the weariness in the man who only came with the clothes on his back and the woe of having lost the late Pope, but even then Thomas had seen the strength that had lied within. The whole world could see it now.

“I should let you get back to it. Then off to bed. I don’t have the strength anymore to carry around a sleeping Pope…”, Thomas smiles. Even one as small as Vincent, his mind adds for him.

“Trust me Dean, I give you permission to shake me as hard as you must until I wake. I don’t think God or the church would forgive me if I broke the most hard working cardinal’s back.” Thomas smiles, not bothering to counter the praise in fear of more to come. Vincent seemed to even still think so highly of him.

Reluctantly, he stands, bidding the Holy Father a good night, not even bothering to stop him when he follows him to the door, already handing him his coat, their hands brushing at the exchange.

A childish part of him unearthed deep inside wished to stay, to make conversation until the two couldn’t stand to be awake anymore, but he quelled it, only allowing himself one last look before he left, feeling more at peace than his walk there.

“An early start, Your Holiness?”

The bowed head made of wavy locks of black was unmistakable even from a distance, Thomas so mesmerized by the Pope’s splendor that he almost missed the weariness there when Vincent lifted his head. His lips are moving in a quiet prayer he cannot hear, hands clasped. Once he recognizes who is before him, all signs of anything troubling him are pulled behind a curtain, his prayer not stopped, but his eyes warm as he looks to the cardinal.

“Thomas.”, Vincent ends his prayer aloud, separating his hands to pat the spot on the bench next to him before Thomas can open his mouth to apologize for interrupting.

He sits, his arm brushing against Vincent’s, the skin there tingling despite the layers of cloth between them. He clears his throat.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”, He says genuinely, and because he can’t help himself from noticing the circles under his eyes, “Did you not sleep well?”

“I suppose.”, Vincent hums, lips twitching before he smiles. “No need to worry, Your Eminence. I am well enough to take on today’s responsibilities. I was only thanking God for all He has done for me, for all He has shown me as of late.”

“I see…”, Thomas reflects, unable to look over Vincent’s response to his question but unable to bring upon the words to ask about his night. Vincent with all his charm had a special way of making his problems so small, endlessly giving to others but hesitant in accepting the same. He’s never lied to Thomas, but he knew even before their shared secret that there were burdens on the man that he took on alone.

“Care to join me for breakfast?”, Thomas asks instead.

“Of course.”, The Pope says, that distracted look in his eye again before he stands, offering the cardinal his hand. It only takes Thomas a moment to gather his bearings before he takes it, allowing the man to help him up as well.

They stay like that for a moment, holding each other's hands as if it was something natural before they fall to their sides, fingers only brushing on happenstance every few steps from how close they walk. It is nothing. Vincent only trusts him to be this close. His heart pounds.

“Can I convince you this time to join me on that device later? They still won’t allow me to walk freely…”

“You mean the Popemobile?”, Thomas connects the words, chuckling at the less-than-pleased look that earns. “Of course. Anywhere you go, I will follow.”

“Viva il Papa!”

The chant resounds around them, the thousands of people so united in their cry that Thomas is sure all of Italy could hear it, perhaps all of the world. Hands shoot up all around them, babies held up as they pass by, Thomas’ heart squeezing at the way Vincent seems determined to bless as many as he possibly can, adoration for the people and of the faith written all over him. It was why the bullet-proof glass was put down, Vincent affronted with even the choice of being so separated from everyone who came all this way to hear his word.

“Sisters and brothers, Happy Easter!”, Vincent says, his soft voice as loud as it could go, drawing out more cheers that only serve to make that beautiful smile grow.

Perhaps they are off schedule once they make it to St. Peter’s Square, but the Pope is in good spirits, and the people are joyous, so Thomas stays quiet, sitting in the backseat comfortably, careful to stay out of the way of the camera pointed at Vincent.

When they stop at the piazza, Vincent peers back, not moving until Thomas gives him a reassuring nod.

Out in the sea of people, Thomas recognizes a few who are permitted to be close by the podium, his fellow cardinals standing out in their caps of red. He looks through them, spotting Tedesco and Bellini quickly, the former looking less-than-amused as the other spoke to him. He would have to ask his friend later what the conversation was about. Whatever it is, they stop once they catch sight of the vehicle, Bellini giving a polite nod and clap.

“You can stand with them if you wish, Thomas, I will be okay.”, Vincent says hushed to him when they make their stop, strands of hair in his face but not hiding the slight nervousness in his eyes.

“Nonsense. I had enough of them crossing their paths during breakfast, forgive my bluntness.”, Thomas says back, Vincent’s laugh music to his ears. He glances and sees Tedesco narrow his eyes as if he somehow heard over the overwhelming sea of voices. He offers a short wave in their general direction before following Vincent to the podium.

The mass is met with awe, Thomas having to remind himself to focus on the words, to breathe, as Vincent led the prayer impeccably. The speech that follows is even better said aloud, Vincent’s voice sincere and earnest as he spread his message of peace and love, the crowd silent as he prayed for victims of conflicts. When Vincent lifts his head, ending his speech, praise comes in waves, the sound so startling that Thomas sees the minute shock turned into a humble smile as the Pope looks to the people.

It is beautiful. Just last Easter Lawrence’s hope had begun to wane, but now, he cannot imagine a more perfect scene, could not imagine feeling closer to God than he did when he stood by Vincent who was so full of infectious hope and grace. Petals from the various pastel shades of flowers donated as they are every Easter fill the air with fragrance and a sense of calm. God was here, in the square, looking down on Vincent, on all His people, Thomas was sure of it.

So why?

He doesn’t hear the gunshot. It is almost nothing but a faint pop in the shouts of cheer. No, he sees it first. Sees the way Vincent’s body stills, back straightened and tiny shoulders pulled up. He turns his head. The look there reminds Thomas of that day the explosion came down in the Conclave, when his weary eyes searched for Vincent in the sea of cardinals and he saw that haunted look on his face, as if he was somewhere else entirely.

Red does not befit the Pope, and yet, it blooms there on Vincent’s pristine cassock near his abdomen, the shaky hand pressing over it doing nothing to quell the flow.

“Thomas?”, Vincent mouths his name, the word more of a groaning noise. It’s only then Thomas moves forward, ignoring the security men already hovering towards Vincent, the screams of understanding from the crowd making his still heart suddenly beat violently in his chest.

“Vincent! Oh God, dear Vincent.”, His mouth runs from him, his arms reaching out on instinct when he sees the way the Pope wilts, legs failing him. He has no strength to hold him up, but he falls with him, managing to land them both safely, Vincent’s whole self swaddled in his arms, as if Thomas can shield him from any more hurt to come.

But the hurt was already there, the bullet lodged in their pillar of hope, knocking him down. He can feel every shaking bone in Vincent’s frame, can hear his quiet gasps of pained breath, his eyes darting towards Thomas then to the crowd and then back to Thomas.

“Are you ok?”, Vincent croaks, wincing horribly as he forces his body upright to look at Thomas more clearly. His bloodied hand touches Thomas’ cheek, his eyes searching frantically.. “Thomas, cariño, are you ok?”

“Vincent-”, He blanches, mind reeling in an attempt to process the words. Why was he asking that? How could he ask about him of all things now?

Hands come down upon them and for a terrifying moment Thomas pulls Vincent closer to himself before he sees the men in their suits, hears the unmistakable sound of a siren descending through the crowd that parts ways for it.

Reulcutantly, he lets go, the men helping Vincent stand, ready to carry him before he shakily puts his hand out, ignoring their urges for him to come along. With bloodied hands he pulls the microphone close again so all could hear, and does the sign of the cross.

“God bless you all. Amen.”

Only when he finishes the cross does he allow his feet to follow, Thomas helpless as he follows behind, the droplets of blood on the ground damning.

“Lawrence-”, A hand grabs his sleeve to stop him. He glances and sees Bellini, brow furrowed. “We have to do damage control.”

“How could that possibly matter to you right now?”, He says, voice almost hysterical as he rips his arm away, the sight of Vincent only feet away feeling more like miles. “I have to be sure he’s ok. God, please, make him ok.”

“Thomas!”, Bellini tries again to no avail.

They haul Benítez up into the ambulance, a stretcher and medical team waiting as they lay him down. Nobody stops Thomas as he follows in behind him, agility he didn’t know he had anymore coming to him as he effortlessly climbed into the back.

Scissors tear through the holy cloth like it is nothing, Vincent shaking still as they work, body attempting to curl in on itself despite the weeping wound and the doctors urging him with alarm to stay still.

“In shock?”, One of them venture.

“An episode.”

He barely catches the words, all his focus on the exposed skin of Benítez’ ample chest, the sight unseen by him, by anyone from Benitez’ initial confession. He looks down instead the red of the bullet wound covered quickly with gauze and only leaving him to look at the myriad of scars; A thin line just above his appendix from the surgery he had shared with Thomas, burnt tissue scarred over and healed a different color across his side, scars that he hopes to God are not past bullet wounds-

How could someone smile and be so kind after being hurt this much? How could God stand to bring injury upon injury to an angel? It’s blasphemy, to compare this mortal to an angel, and to question the work of God, but his thoughts scatter and escape the confines of any doctrine, anxiety climbing so much he feels it stuck in his throat, making him nauseous.

“Cardinal-”, One of the doctor’s snaps him out of his daze. “Please speak to him, we need him to calm down, he’s hurting himself.”

“Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores-” Vincent mumbles fervently, eyes wide, fingers shaking and grasping onto nothing.

As quickly as he could, Thomas pulled Vincent’s rosary from his right pocket where it always sat, clasping the item and his own hand into the Pope’s.

“-ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”, Thomas finishes the Hail Mary, hoping his Spanish does not fail him now, especially with how many times he has heard Vincent mumble this prayer, almost absentmindedly to himself, fingers on his rosary and head bowed.

“Amen.”, Vincent blinks, his shaky hand clasping onto Thomas’ once he realizes he is there. “The church-”

“Dear Vincent, do not worry about that now. Please, stay still, the doctors will stop the bleeding.”, Thomas pleads. The tears that pool in those dark eyes nearly make him weep himself.

“No, please, there were others inside.”, Vincent begs, words caught in a shaky sob. “I am ok. Please, the others-”

“Vincent…”

The image of the lone figure standing in the ruins of a burnt church was plastered everywhere once. It was blurry, taken from a distance, the photographer too cowardly to get close to the man inside, the only survivor. It had stayed in the back of Thomas’ mind for a few days after he came upon it, articles briefly mentioning Benítez and the work he’s done, only some throwing in the fact he survived his injuries. It was passed along as a miracle of faith, how in every part of the world there was someone fighting for the word of God.

Thomas feels like a fool now. Even he treated this poor man as a cliff note, as a weekly miracle. His respect for the late Holy Father grows even more, for him to see that and bring Benítez to him, to ensure he was alright. Did anyone else?

“Everyone is safe. I promise you.”

“Everyone?”, his soft voice trembles.

“Yes. We are on our way to the hospital now. So please, rest.”, Thomas says gently, hoping he is doing the right thing.

He looks unsure, torn, but between the doctors staunching the bleeding and Thomas’ thumb stroking the skin of his hand he nods, long lashes blinking, the tears gathered there falling all at once.

“Gracias a dios.”

He doesn’t speak after that, scarcely moves, eyes closed. Thomas gasps, hands ready to shake the man until he opens his eyes once more until he comes back to him, but the voice of the doctors stops him.

“He is stable for now, but there’s internal bleeding-”

It is impossible to focus, to hear anything but the sickening sound of thudding heart with the image of Vincent who was always so full of life suddenly small and still on the stretcher. His thoughts swarm, worry choking him, threatening to make him wheeze and make a scene, but blessedly the ambulance stops in front of the Gemili Hospital.

When they take him away he sits in the waiting room outside the tenth floor, Vincent’s rosary still selfishly clutched in his hand.

“They say the surgery will be done by today. There was some internal bleeding, the bullet hit his small intestine…”

“But will he be fine?”, Bellini asks. His glasses are off, his fingers pressing at the pressure point on the bridge of his nose. He was the only one they allowed in the waiting room, on the floor for that matter, the security strict, not even allowing Ray to join them.

“They said it should be.” Still, that awful feeling in the pit of Thomas’ stomach wouldn’t go away, the beads of the rosary he absentmindedly ran his fingers over the only thing grounding him. It was the only thing Vincent had brought with him on that day of the Conclave. He brushes his thumb over the image of Guadalupe.

“God willing.”, Bellini sighs. “The public is a mess right now, there’s people crying in the street, nearly the whole crowd is still there despite security urging them to leave. At least they caught the gunman pretty quickly-“

“How could God do this?”, Lawrence laments, unable to keep the question to himself. It was too heavy to bear alone. “He has done no wrong. He’s been perfect. How could He?”

“Thomas…”, Bellini says, mouth twisting before he sighs, calming himself. “You are under immense stress, the Lord knows we all are, so I won’t admonish you. But you should know- this isn’t a punishment. Maybe He wanted to test Benítez, or test the people and their faith. Maybe it is something that needed to happen in the grand scheme of things. Who knows, but you cannot reflect on such things…”

Lawrence stays quiet, unable to find an answer as he mulls over the words. Bellini sighs.

“We have to hold a press conference on what happened. The public will be happy to know he’s going to be okay. God has protected him from death, He chose to keep him here. That’s all that should matter.”

“He was so hurt, and he still blessed the people. He still prayed with me, as if I was in need-“ He looks to his lap. Alone in that waiting room he had time to reflect. Vincent was not merely delirious from blood loss. That look he had, like he could not truly see what was in front of him, frightened to the point he could only shake and pray- it was something living under his skin, kept hidden inside of him and chipping him away. How had no one seen it before, how much he suffered alone? How could Thomas fail him so much? Vincent had given him so much and all he could do was take, take, take.

He had believed he could be better, that he had more faith and love inside him to afford, but now-

“Nevermind…If they see you crying like this, they will all believe he’s dead.” There’s a moment's irritation in his voice before he places a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and in a gentler voice says, “Forgive me. I know how much he means to you. We are all worried, but he will be ok Thomas. Despite what you feel, the Lord is watching over the Holy Father. All we can do now is pray. We will handle the press. You stay here. It would be better if he had someone there when he wakes.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t. Just call with any news.”, Bellini says with finality, offering one last pat to his shoulder before the sounds of his footsteps draw away.

When Thomas is alone once more he prays.

Hours later, at the sight of a woman in a light blue coat approaching, Thomas forces his body aching from hunched prayer to stand, having to focus on the words the doctor was saying to hear them over his beating heart.

“He may be a bit drowsy when he wakes, but will be lucid. As long as he avoids strenuous activity he should heal in two or three weeks. We will keep him overnight for observation to be sure…”

“Can I see him, please?”

There must be something truly desperate from the look on his face, from the shake of his voice, because after a momentary pause she nods.

He had never been inside the special hospital floor before. Only the Pope and those he allowed in were permitted to enter. The late Holy Father never had a long term stay, and he never dreamed Benítez would either. Two security guards stand near the entrance; two men who usually watched over the new Pope during special events. Thomas could always see the way they adored Vincent, another countless victim to his natural charm. They step aside for Thomas and the doctor expressions stone.

“Do not disturb him, Your Eminence. We will be back to check on his vitals later.”, She says in a low voice, Thomas only having enough time to bow his head in understanding before she takes her leave.

Only the dim electronic light from the machines and the soft lamp on the corner table illuminate the room, the curtains drawn despite the setting sun outside. The steady beeps from the monitor do little to quell his worry, only the sight of the faint movement of the unconscious man’s chest makes relief fall upon him so suddenly he needs to sit on the chair beside the bed before his legs fail him.

The thin fabric of the hospital garment hides the wound and scars from view, but Thomas still remembers them clearly, swears he can almost trace out where each one had been from how much the image stains his memory. Now that he sits there staring at him, Thomas doesn’t think he’s ever seen Vincent in short sleeves before. He would have remembered the burnt skin on the outside of his right arm, some marks speckled onto the inside. He wonders how much pain he was in, how long it took for him to heal. The image of Vincent alone on a hospital bed much like now with such severe burns making his heart mourn all over again.

He looks at his face instead, focusing on the way those usual smile lines he adored were relaxed and his eyes were softly closed, as if he was resting peacefully. From his neck up, only the bags under his eyes betrayed his well-being.

Once he starts staring at Vincent, he can’t seem to stop, eyes freely watching the soft rise and fall of his chest to the way his lively hair the public adored was in disarray, strands spilled onto his face like ink, sure to get in his eyes once they opened.

On instinct, he reaches out, brushing wavy locks out of his face, his fingers brushing against the soft skin that lay underneath. The hum that the man emits at the touch startles him so terribly he abruptly draws back his hand, heart squeezing at the exhaled whimper that follows, the serene expression turning sour.

“Vincenzo…”, Thomas says in his native tongue. It was strange seeing the normally calm and collected man like this. He’s seen Thomas cry once, but never had Thomas been able to return the favor…

”Thomas, I see no fault in you. I’ve told you many times before, I thought it should be you in my place, but…I have accepted God’s decision. So please accept mine and stay by my side as Dean. Your uncertainty..weren’t you the one to say faith should walk hand in hand with doubt?”, He remembers those soft words now, the hands clasping his after he had bowed his head and confessed his sins once more in detail, confessed his discontent for the church before and how he had planned to leave. It didn’t sway Vincent, didn’t stop him from grasping onto Lawrence and seeing holiness in him when he didn’t deserve such kindness, such understanding.

He had prayed with him there, in the courtyard in front of the turtles, their fingers intertwined somehow in the middle of his tears. The words had left him the most calm he had felt in years. It was the closest he had felt to God.

“Mio caro Vicenzo…”, He whispers fondly as he holds onto his hand. It’s different than in the ambulance, the Pope’s blood washed from his hands, the urgency no longer strangling Thomas’ lungs. Vincent needed him to be strong. “Dios te salve, María…”

By the Amen, the crease on the man’s brow is gone, his frown relaxed once more and his breathing peaceful. Even still, Thomas recites the prayer again.

He should call the church. Everyone must be aching to know the Pope’s condition, knowing if he was ok, but he couldn’t bear the thought of letting the hand go. With the adrenaline and worry from the day dampened, all that was left was an exhaustion he could not tame.

Somewhere after another prayer, he falls asleep.

“Thomas.”, His name is said barely above a whisper.

Before he could attempt to open his eyes, fingers squeezed his own reassuringly, the touch familiar. Blinking, he wakes, the image of Vincent with his eyes open and a smile on his face making him pause in place, only his touch convincing his waking mind he was not dreaming.

The Pope tilts his head. “That can’t be comfortable…”

“Says the one who I find asleep at his desk nearly every week…”, The cardinal responds on instinct, shaking his head in disbelief when he processes the words. “You wake up in the hospital and that’s your first concern?”

“Among a few.”, Vincent says, shifting to sit up more before Thomas can even begin to stop him, a hiss of pain held back through gritted teeth. He looks to Thomas, his expressive eyes doing little to hide his worry. “Did…Did anyone get hurt?”

There was that question again, as if it was the only thing that mattered. It was Vincent’s selflessness put on display, something he usually deeply admired, but now, for a moment, it left a bitter taste on Thomas’ tongue. He takes a breath. “Besides you, no. They subdued the gunman pretty quickly. It seems you were his only intended target.”

“Good.”, Vincent breathes out, rigid shoulders slumping in relief, and Lawrence can control himself no longer.

“Good? You were shot! You needed surgery!”, He snaps, Vincent only blinking for a second before he looks down, letting go of Thomas’ hand to put it over his newly acquired injury.

“Better me than anyone else. I’m thankful God showed mercy to the crowd.” He says it so earnestly, so sincerely, as if his pain meant nothing. He looks down at his lap. “Did they find out our secret?”

Our secret. It’s what Vincent called it the sparse times the topic comes up, unable to speak its name even with Thomas. He always had a straight face when he said it, but now…there is shame there. It makes Thomas’ bubbling irritation grow. Not at Vincent, never at Vincent, but at the world, and at himself. He remembers the way he had gawked and fumed at the information when he found out, Vincent comforting him as if it was something to be feared. Guilt courses through him in waves at the way Vincent looks now, as if his existence itself has brought about hardship to the church, to Thomas.

”And the holy father was content to allow that? Then he must have gone mad!”

“No.”, Thomas says in a voice coated with bitterness, any apology he could give still stubbornly stuck in his throat. “There was no x-ray needed. They stayed around the area of the bullet.”

“Then why are you angry with me?”, Vincent says, voice calm besides the slight shake at the end that betrays him. Thomas sighs, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Aren’t you at least a little concerned with yourself?”

“No.”, Vincent answers with no pause for consideration, his downcast eyes moving to Thomas, frowning at the discontent that must show on his face. “I am alive and awake. The Lord has sheltered me. I shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor by the arrow that flies by day.”

“But the bullet did come near you. It went through you!”

“You know not to take the psalms so literal, Your Eminence.”, Vincent says, eyebrows furrowing. The confusion in his voice only makes Thomas mourn more. “I’ve been through worse.”

Suddenly, his vision blurred, the image of Vincent in front of him awash with tears that built up unnoticed.

“Oh Thomas…”, Vincent says quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ask how you are…”

“You did. It was the first thing you asked. You got shot, and you asked if I was okay.”, He wipes his eyes, his frustrations at himself only causing more tears to well up and fall pitifully.

“I…I remember that.”, Vincent hums, as if it was something he’d rather not recall. “Then after that…things got fuzzy.”

“I was worried for you. So concerned I couldn’t stop praying for even a moment.”, He can’t stop the confession.

“You don’t-”

“Do not say I don’t have to. Somebody has to when you can’t seem to be concerned for even yourself.”, Thomas interrupts. He leans over and takes Vincent’s hands into his own, obsidian eyes searching his own, the uncertainty there pushing Thomas forward. “Dear Vincent…You hear my confessions, hear my troubles. Allow me to do the same.”

He opens his mouth to disagree, a tiny shake of his head letting his thoughts known, but all it takes is for Thomas gently squeezing his hands to convince him to speak. “I’ve…seen so much in my lifetime. If I broke down each time I encountered cruelty, I would hardly be living.”

“That may all be well, but it can’t do any good keeping it all inside you.”

“I pray. He hears me. So I’m not truly keeping it all to myself…”, Vincent says, and then in a voice so quiet Thomas barely hears he continues. “So many people depend on me, and I want to be the best I can be to help people with the guidance of The Lord. I cannot afford to slip.”

“It’s hardly a weakness to require help. You remind me time and time again, you’re only human, Vincent.”, Thomas soothes, taking a deep breath. “In the ambulance…you were out of it, didn’t seem to recognize where you were. It reminded me of how you looked in the conclave when the ceiling broke…”

The wobble of Vincent’s lips make Thomas almost take back the words, but he stays quiet, unable to stop himself from stroking his thumb over Vincent’s hand as the Pope searches for his words.

“I’m sorry.”, Vincent says finally, now unable to look Thomas in the eye. “Forgive me. I have lied to you Thomas. To everyone. I am not worthy to be Pope. I’ve tried to understand why The Lord would choose me when I am this way. I thought I could bear through it, but you have seen-”

“Vincent, what on Earth are you talking about?” Each slight tremor that runs through the Pope’s frame makes his heart ache painfully. “There is no one more worthy than you to be the Pope. You have done marvelously-”

“No.”, Vincent’s words shake as he continues. “Today when I heard that noise and I felt that sharp pain, all I could think about was that explosion that punctured my appendix. Each time something little reminds me of it, I end up back there, seeing it, feeling it. The church depended on me, and I failed them. Of the people inside that day…I was the only one left. I didn’t save anyone. This attack…it must have been God angry with me for thinking I could do better here.”

“No!”, Thomas interrupts boldly, unable to hear such talk any longer. Shiny eyes look up at him, and Thomas feels more sure of his words than anything. “You aren’t to blame. When you fell to the ground, I blamed God. In my prayers and thoughts as I waited for you to wake I thought, Why? How could He do this to someone so holy, someone who has done nothing but good? I see it now though. He has done this so we can have this talk. So your hurt can lessen.”

“Thomas…I don’t think what’s wrong with me can be fixed. I have cast my burdens upon The Lord, and still I am the way I am.”

“And yet…when I was there praying with you, you calmed down enough to breathe.”, Lawrence recalls. “I am not naive enough to believe I can fix your ailments, but it must feel good to talk about this, does it not?”

“I couldn’t ask that of you. I already ask too much of you, Thomas. I asked you to stay-”

“Which I did of my own volition.”, He promises as he’s done many times before. “Anything I can do to bring you peace is worth my time. You are very dear to me. ”

“Even as I am?”

“Especially as you are. You are the way God made you, remember?” The slight smile he receives at the words feels like a victory.

“Yes…But you are not worried what the public would think if they found out the Pope is not well?”, He ventures, as if he could ever get Thomas to turn back now.

“It is the modern century. It wouldn’t be unheard of for the Pope to receive psychiatric help if he needs it. We could try to make it as private as possible.”, Thomas offers, unsurprised by the shake of Benítez’ head. Of course. “Until you want that…it could be another secret between you, me, and God.”

“Thomas…If it is not too much for you to carry, I would like that.” The acceptance is music to his ears.

As if he couldn’t bear the weight of the tears in his eyes any longer, Benítez allows some to slip through, sniffling so sadly that Thomas just had to let go of one of his trembling hands to wipe the fresh teardrops away, hand lingering there on his cheek. Blessedly, Vincent leans into the touch, a soft noise in the back of his throat following when Thomas cups his cheek earnestly.

“I was scared today, it hurt so badly, but seeing you there…It made it bearable.”

“I did not do anything Vincent…but I am thankful you are still here with me. I don’t know what I’d have done if He took you away so soon.” Lawrence says, his hand still in Vincent’s trailing to his scarred arm. “I admire you more than anyone. There is so much strength in you. How long have you been hurting so deeply alone?”

Something in those words causes the last walls the man held up to crumble, more tears falling from tired eyes than Thomas can catch. All it takes is a weeping noise to pass those lips for Thomas to to envelop the hurt soul in an embrace, long arms carefully wrapping around the small frame. Vincent sobs into the juncture of his neck, causing Thomas to bury his face into his soft black hair to hide his own silent tears. Beneath the sterile hospital smell was Vincent’s vanilla scent, comforting and grounding.

“There, there. You are okay now, dear Vincent. I promise. I am here. Let it all out.”, Thomas reassures as softly as he can, ignoring the way his heart aches from the contact. Wet tears warm his neck, the fluttering lashes there tickling his skin. He can feel the way Vincent's sobs die down into small, quiet hiccups he can feel beneath his palm. “Are you alright, angelo?”

A blasphemous title, as well as one too familiar to bestow upon the Pope, whether he was cradled in his arms or not, but Vincent says nothing against the slip-up, nodding quietly, tired head lifting to see Thomas again.

“Forgive me…”, Vincent says, face aflush from the tears and shame, but Thomas has none of that.

“I’ve had many people use my shoulder to wipe away their tears, as I’m sure you have.”, Thomas smiles. “If you would allow me…please call to me anytime you need it again.”

“I will try…”, Vincent says, retracting his arms regrettably from around Thomas to wipe at his eyes. “What a mess. I will have to reflect on how to address what happened today in my next homily…”

“Are you truly thinking about work after all this?” Why was he not surprised? “You are on strict bedrest you know. For three weeks.”

“I will be okay…I could move around just fine after the last surgery I had.” The look on his face must show his disapproval because Vincent smiles sheepishly, hand atop Thomas’. “But…if it will stop getting you to look like a ghost I will try to take it easy.”

“Good.”, Thomas smiles, feeling something closer to peace than he has all day. “Now…I have to go make a phone call. The curia will have my hide if I wait any longer delivering the news your surgery was a success.”

“And then…you will come right back?” The hopeful tone tugs at his heart strings.

“My dear Vincent, I am afraid it will be difficult to get rid of me in the next couple of weeks.”, Thomas promises.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Despite Vincent’s valiant efforts in granting his discharge, he stays the next few days in the suite of the hospital, rounds of visitors finally allowed through to visit upon him. Many cardinals and curia staff alike come up to see him, even Tedesco stopping by and adding to the numerous flowers with red roses that had failed to be de-thorned. Thomas moves them to the far side of the room, frowning as the two talk.

“Do you see now how your tolerance will hurt you in the end?”, Tedesco scoffs, already pulling out his vape. “They saw you as weak. That’s why they shot you. Nobody respects the Church anymore with how much you are willing to let slide.”

“You’re wrong, Your Eminence. Even despite the fear that Holy Sunday caused…I forgave the perpetrator. He was misguided, yes, but to hold onto such hate would cause nothing but conflict. If you forgive men their tresspasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. Isn’t that what Matthew said?”, Benítez responds calmly, the cardinals fumbling to come up with a proper response causing Thomas to be unable to hide a proud smile.

“I still think it is weak to so publicly forgive him. You are the face of the Curia now. You are supposed to fight against those who fight against the faith-”

“I am not God. It is up to Him if He wishes to fight against those who are our enemies. All I can do is pray and spread His message.”

“Typical.”, Tedesco waves his hand, taking a puff of smoke and only moving his head to the side to exhale it at the dirty look Thomas shoots his way. “Don’t repeat this, Padre. The people crying in your name gave me a headache. With how weak you are, one more bullet will do you in.”

“I am honored you care for my well-being, Your Eminence.” Benítez smiles, visibly amused at the way Tedesco flushes, vape gripped in his hand so tightly Thomas wonders if the plastic outside will snap.

“Molto carino, Padre. But I just do not care to sit through another conclave again so soon. I’ve had enough of my brother’s idiotic ideals.”, Tedesco scoffs, glancing over at Thomas before throwing in a less-than-honest “Forgive me.”

“Well that won’t be a concern. His Holiness will be fully healed soon enough.”, Thomas dismisses.

“Hm, I’d hope so with how much you have been hovering over him.”, Tedesco taunts before waving his hand and getting up from the seat. “I will see you again when you are well, Your Holiness.”

“Your Eminence.”, Vincent nods his head in goodbye, unprepared by the way the Patriarch takes his hand, kissing over it, the sight making Thomas’ stomach turn. When he is finally out the door, he realizes he had been frowning.

“I believe that is all the visitors I will be getting today.”, Vincent finally says when they are alone, eyeing the clock on the wall before smiling at Thomas. “You should be going home. I can’t forgive myself for keeping you here late each day. Their are plenty of great people here to look after me if I call.”

“I’m aware. But as your Dean, I could not stand to know I am away when you need help.”, Thomas says before more honestly his heart adds “And especially to a dear friend.”

“Thomas.”, Vincent smiles, looking down at his hands not clasped as if he was considering something those words brought to mind. “I was wondering…if it would be too much to ask for you to live in the apartments with me. Not in the same one of course, but on the same floor. You can have mine since it is the slightly bigger one, and I could have the one to the side. But of course if that is too much-”

“Vincent.”, Thomas stops his nervous request, smiling as he takes his hand, those eyes he loves finally looking at him. “I would like nothing more.”