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Chapter Text

His Holiness sank deep into the car seat, and closed his eyes. Thomas keyed on the mike, gave the driver instructions to take them back to Casa Santa Marta, then switched off the mike again.

"It never gets easier," the Holy Father -- no, Vincent -- muttered as the car started to move.

Thomas blinked. The calm comforting strength Innocent had been radiating inside the hospital among the anxious and anguished families was gone, leaving just a hollow exhausted lump slumping limply on the seat.

"What am I saying," Vincent chuffed self-deprecatingly. "It should never get easier."

Thomas didn't know what to say to that. He reached out and put a hand on Vincent's shoulder. Vincent sniffled and shifted a bit closer. Thomas let his hand slide down along Vincent's arm, leaning in so they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Vincent gradually slumped further until his head rested on Thomas' shoulder.

"When we get back, you're going straight to bed," Thomas said.

"In my room?" Vincent asked.

"Uh, actually..."

Chapter Text

His Holiness walked into the room and went straight to the closet. He bent and retrieved his battered, worn briefcase. Thomas turned slightly and averted his eyes as Innocent laid it on the bed and checked the contents. Satisfied, he reached for the Bible on the bedside table, and placed it into the briefcase. Then he looked around.

"The candles --" he said.

"I had fresh ones placed in your room, Your Holiness," Sr. Agnes said. "Please don't worry about these, someone will be by to clean them up."

"Oh," said Innocent. "Thank you, Sister. That is very kind."

He looked at the cassocks hanging in the closet. One a Cardinal's cassock, black with red trims, and the other the plain black he had been wearing when he arrived.

"I can take them to be cleaned, Your Holiness," Ray said. "The Cardinal's cassock, I will put back where I got it from. The other one --"

Vincent reached out and touched the fabric.

"You could keep it," said Thomas.

"And if I don't?"

"There's always someone else who could wear it," said Agnes.

Vincent nodded, and let go. He turned, the black briefcase in his hand sliding to his side against the white cassock.

"Shall we?" said Innocent, and Thomas bowed, and led the way out of the room.

Chapter Text

His Holiness -- Vincent, Thomas reminded himself -- looked around the suit. The modest living section in front, the bedroom in the back. "Is this where I am to live?" he asked.

"This," Thomas explained, "is temporary. Until your permanent quarters can be readied."

"The room downstairs, where the late Holy Father lived?"

"It could be," Thomas said. "That's something we should discuss -- later." He turned to Ray and Sr. Agnes. Ray led the way into the bedroom, and showed the Holy Father the clothes in the drawers, and the toiletries in the bathroom.

"These should tide you over for the next few days," Ray concluded. "We'll get things suiting your personal preferences later."

"I don't need --"

"It's the same amount of trouble, to get any kind of clothes or toilet items," Thomas interjected. "You should get what you like."

"Right," Vincent nodded. "Thank you, Ray. I'll let you know what to get."

Ray bowed in acknowledgment, looked at Thomas to see if there was anything else, wished everyone a good night, and left.

"It's almost morning, actually," Vincent laughed. He turned to Agnes. "I'm sorry to have kept you up so late, Sister."

"I am delegating breakfast duty to the other Sisters," Agnes assured him. "And the Dean tells me we are to let you sleep until 10?" She glanced at Thomas.

"First thing is the Mass with the Cardinals at noon," Thomas explained. "You'll want to meet with the Master of Ceremonies beforehand, to go over the order and protocol. So we should go over to the Sistine around 11."

"Which means I should be up at 10. Yes, I see," Vincent agreed.

"So what would Your Holiness like for breakfast?" Agnes asked.

"Oh, anything you have will be --"

Thomas raised an eyebrow. Vincent looked at him and laughed.

"Really, Thomas," he said. "Right now I'm too tired to think of what I want for breakfast!"

"Very well," said Agnes. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea."

"Good. Someone will bring the breakfast here at 10."

"Here? But --"

"If you wish to eat in the dining room, like the late Holy Father used to, we'll make arrangements," Thomas said. "But not tomorrow. There are too many things to do."

"Right. Of course," Vincent nodded.

"If there's nothing else?" Agnes asked.

Vincent shook his head, thanked her again, she wished him good night, and left.

Vincent looked at Thomas. "Was there anything we needed to discuss?" he asked.

"Nothing that can't wait until we both have had some sleep."

That seemed to give Vincent pause. "Where do you live?" he asked.

"The Palace of the Holy Office."

"That's across the street?"

"Yes. Officially outside Vatican grounds, but --" he shrugged. "Although, I think I might just go downstairs and sleep in the room I was assigned to for the Conclave. My things are still there."

"If you do, you could join me for breakfast tomorrow?"

"If you wish."

"I do."

"Then I'll be here."

Vincent stepped forward and extended his hands, palm up, to Thomas. Thomas placed his hands on Vincent's, and Vincent clasped them, hands warm and soft around Thomas'.

"Thank you, Thomas."

Thomas looked down into Vincent's upturned face, and gently squeezed his hands.

"Always, Vincent."

And as he let go of Vincent's hands, stepped back, turned, and left -- he felt pulled back, as if by a string wound around his heart.

Chapter Text

Thomas opened the door to his room, and paused. Aldo was sitting on the bed, on top of the covers, reading his iPad. His suitcase sat on the floor, taking up most of the space between the bed and the desk.

"Ah, finally," Aldo said, switching off the iPad and putting it down on his lap. "How did it go?"

Thomas considered his options. He decided on walking around to the other side of the bed, and sitting down there. "What are you doing here?" he asked as he began taking off his shoes.

"Waiting for you, of course," Aldo scoffed. "I persuaded the Sisters to let me in."

Thomas dropped his shoes to the floor, got up, opened the drawers, and started pulling out his night clothes. "What made you think I'd come back here?"

"You went straight to the hospital with the Holy Father. And when I asked, the Sisters confirmed your things were still here."

"I could have gone home tonight, and came and collected my things tomorrow."

"True. I left word with the guard out front to stop you if you tried to leave without your things, and call me."

"I'm too tired for a debrief right now, Aldo," Thomas said. He grabbed his things and walked into the bathroom. He washed up, changed, and went back out. Aldo was still there, but he got up as Thomas approached the bed. Aldo stood, a hand on the handle of his suitcase, and watched as Thomas grabbed his rosary and got in under the covers.

"How is he, really?" Aldo asked.

Thomas settled in, folding his arms across his chest, absently fingering the rosary beads as the cross came to rest over his heart. He stared up at the ceiling.

"The people will love him, Aldo," he said finally. "The way he was at the hospital... People will be calling him a Saint by morning. Oh, they are probably saying that already, on social media."

"Is that a problem?"

"Was Mother Teresa a problem? Saint John Paul II?"

"Right. We need someone good overseeing communications."

"I'm sure you'll figure that out."

"Me?"

"You are staying on, aren't you?"

"Am I?"

Thomas turned his head and looked up at Aldo. "I did tell him not to make promises of office yet," he admitted.

"And you?"

"He needs... someone."

Aldo stood there, considering. "How is he, really?" he asked, again.

Thomas closed his eyes. "He is the Holy Father, Aldo."

Aldo waited to see if Thomas would say anything else. When Thomas didn't, Aldo grabbed his suitcase and turned toward the door. "I'll bring you my recommendations for Communications Director tomorrow," he said. "Good night."

"It's almost morning, actually," Thomas said, without opening his eyes. He heard Aldo wheel his suitcase to the door, open it, step out, and shut the door.

Chapter Text

Ray clicked the button that started the overwriting of all previously deleted files on the storage drive.

Behind him, the door opened, and Sr. Agnes stepped into the office. She glanced at the computer screen, showing the graphical representation of the overwrite process taking place.

"You deleted the files," she said. It wasn't a question.

"You booked the tickets," Ray said. "You made that appointment." It wasn't a question either.

Agnes stepped up next to Ray. Together they watched the overwrite proceed.

"I told Dean Lawrence," Ray said.

Agnes turned to look at him.

"He told you to do this?"

"He's not... quite cognizant of computer file security."

"Hmph." Agnes turned back to watch the monitor. "You are sure about this?"

'I trust Cardinal Lawrence," Ray said. "You?"

"I trust the late Holy Father. And..."

Ray looked up at Agnes.

"He thanked us Sisters when he said grace."

"He did?"

"Yes. You should have seen the Cardinals' faces."

"I'm sorry to have missed it," Ray said.

"I think," Agnes said, "there will be many more instances like that."

They watched the files being overwritten for a while more.

"Come," said Agnes. "We should go to bed. I'll lock the office, and come back tomorrow to close down that program."

"You mean later today."

"Yes," said Agnes. "It's almost morning."

Chapter Text

"So," Thomas said, as he poured tea into a cup. Vincent pushed away his empty breakfast plate, and Thomas placed the tea in front of him.

"First thing I'd like you to do when you see Aldo," Thomas continued, "is tell him you are asking him to continue in his position as Secretary of State until you decide on a permanent appointment."

"Why not just make it permanent to begin with?" asked Vincent.

"You don't know Aldo, and Aldo doesn't know you," said Thomas.

"But you do."

"Yes," Thomas acknowledged. He poured a cup of tea for himself.

"And you think he is a good Secretary of State? That he should continue in his position?"

"I do." Thomas took a sip of his tea, then put down the cup. "But put it this way. Even if I were Pope, I wouldn't confirm his position permanently just yet. Being Pope, I might see things differently than when I was a Cardinal. I'd want to take time, let things settle in before making anything permanent."

"I see. But I should immediately issue the provisional stay in place order so things keep running in the meanwhile?"

"Yes, exactly."

"So what about all the other positions in the Curia? Shouldn't I issue a stay in place order for them, too?"

"Well --"

There was a knock at the door. Thomas glanced at Vincent for permission, then called out, "Yes?"

The door opened and Ray came in. "Good morning, Your Holiness, Eminence," he said. "Eminences Tedesco, Tremblay, and Adeyemi are downstairs."

"Oh," said Vincent. "Tremblay and Adeyemi. What are we going to do about them?"

"That's why the only stay in place order you are issuing today is for Aldo," said Thomas. "And for now --"

Chapter Text

Aldo took a step into the front lobby of Casa Santa Marta, and paused. Seated in various chairs around the room were Tedesco, Adeyemi, and Tremblay. They had somehow managed to spread themselves around the room so it didn't look like they were pointedly ignoring each other. Aldo studied the configuration, looking for a suitable spot where he might sit and wait. But at that moment the elevator opened and Innocent walked out, followed closely by Thomas, saving Aldo from the convoluted socio-political puzzle.

"Holy Father," Aldo said, moving smoothly to bow before Innocent. "I trust you had a good night's rest?" Behind him, the other three were scrambling to their feet.

"Yes, I did. Thank you," Innocent smiled at Aldo, then turned to the other three Cardinals who had shuffled forward. "Patriarch Tedesco, thank you for joining us. Eminence Adeyemi, Eminence Tremblay." He paused.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Aldo noted a staff photographer discreetly taking pictures of the group. He glanced at Thomas, who returned a carefully bland look.

"It's a nice day outside," Innocent was saying. "I'd like very much to walk to the Sistine. But I'm given to understand that Eminences Tremblay and Adeyemi have been having difficulties with walking," he threw a pointed glance at their perfectly good feet, "and would prefer to take a car?"

Aldo watched as Tremblay and Adeyemi contemplated protesting that they could walk, thought better of it, and allowed themselves to be led away by Ray O'Malley, who had silently appeared behind them.

"Well, shall we?" Innocent smiled at Tedesco and Aldo, and turned toward the front door. Aldo and Tedesco followed, with Thomas bringing up the rear. Tedesco waited until they were outside and walking under the archway to the next courtyard before grumbling into Innocent's ear, "You know, I actually have a bum leg?"

Innocent laughed. "Do you need us to walk slower?" he asked, even as he shifted his pace to match Tedesco. "Cardinal Bellini," he motioned for Aldo to step up, so that the three of them were walking abreast. The staff photographer ran ahead then turned to get pictures of them walking.

"I understand," Innocent said to Aldo, "that it is customary for a new Pope to ask all officers of the Curia to continue in their positions until I make permanent appointments."

"That has been the custom, yes," Aldo confirmed.

"I'd like you to continue in your position," Innocent said. "I'm also given to understand that we are in need of a Communications Director. I'd like you to assign someone as Acting Director until I can make a permanent appointment."

"Yes," Aldo nodded. "I can do that."

"Do I need to sign something to make it official?"

"I'll have the forms prepared for you to sign later today."

"Thank you, Your Eminence." Innocent turned back to Tedesco. "Patriarch, I was hoping for your input on places I might visit in Italy. I regret to say I haven't had much opportunity to travel in this country outside Rome..."

Aldo took a chance to glance back at Thomas, serenely following a few paces back. Then he turned back and butted in on Tedesco, and soon they were in a heated discussion over the merits of Milan versus Venice, while Innocent fell back and walked contentedly beside Thomas.

Chapter Text

Aldo found Giulio Sabbadin, and slid in to stand next to him in the line of Cardinals waiting to process into the Sistine chapel for the Mass with the new Pontiff.

Giulio nodded to Aldo in greeting, careful not to dislodge the miter perched on his head. Aldo returned the nod, likewise careful with his miter. They both stood straight and faced forward as the music started and Pope Innocent stepped out to lead the procession. Aldo watched as Giulio's face twisted in confusion.

"Why is the Pope not wearing a miter?" Giulio whispered to Aldo.

"It was too big," Aldo whispered back. "Kept falling onto his eyes."

Giulio almost turned toward Aldo, but kept himself facing forward with visible effort. The line of Cardinals started moving, and they walked in silence until they reached their seats. Once there, Giulio lowered his head and whispered again to Aldo, disguising the movement in their maneuvering between chairs.

"You couldn't find a smaller miter?" he asked. "The conservatives are going to have a heyday with this! It's a PR disaster!"

"Well, think of something. You're in charge."

"What?"

"The Holy Father charged me with appointing an Acting Communications Director. You are it."

Giulio stared at Aldo in disbelief. Up at the altar, Innocent made the sign of the cross to start the Mass, precluding any further conversation.

Cardinal Sabbadin! Why was the Pope not wearing a miter?

His Holiness values simplicity.

But doesn't it diminish the dignity of the office?

Did you feel it diminished the office?

...

The dignity is in the person, not the vestments. Let me tell you this. When the bomb went off during the Conclave, and we were all covered in dust, and huddled in the basement trying to understand what had happened... None of us felt or looked very dignified. None of us acted with much dignity in that moment. None, except one. And that one is the Holy Father. So no, he does not need a miter. He has more than enough dignity in his person. Any other questions? No? Thank you, then. Good afternoon.

Aldo, Thomas, and Vincent watched in silence as Giulio walked out of the briefing room.

"Oh," Thomas finally breathed out. "That was genius!"

Aldo just hummed in satisfaction as he turned off the screen.

Vincent stared pensively at the darkened screen. "I know," he said, "rhetorically, it is the right move. But..."

Aldo glanced at Thomas, but he was watching Vincent.

"It makes me sound like some kind of a Saint!" Vincent finally said. "I'm not anything special, it just wasn't my first bomb explosion!"

Aldo rolled his eyes up at the ceiling and counted to ten while praying for patience. When he looked back down, this time Thomas did meet his gaze. For a moment the two of them stayed suspended in the absurd impossibility of the man sitting between them. Then Thomas reached out and put a hand on Vincent's shoulder -- the same way, Aldo remembered, he had woken Vincent that first day, when Vincent, exhausted from his journey, had fallen asleep on the hard office chair while Aldo had argued with Thomas over whether to admit him to the Conclave.

"You are who you are, Vincent," Thomas said. "It doesn't matter what people say or think. You are who matters."

And Vincent's smile up at Thomas was so bright, Aldo closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

The hawk swooped down toward the rabbit. At the last second, the rabbit darted sharply left, causing the hawk to clutch empty air.

"Oh, thank God," said Ray.

"Yet now the hawk is hungry," said Vincent. "God loves both the hawk and the rabbit."

"How does He do that?" said Thomas.

"It's beyond human capacity," said Vincent. "But for God all things are possible. And don't worry, Aldo. My next homily won't be 'Hawk and Rabbit.' I don't feel up to explaining this."

"That is the point," Thomas said. "It's beyond human comprehension."

"Oh, please," Aldo groaned. "Don't encourage him!"

Chapter Text

The newly sworn Swiss Guards lined up in precise formation in the courtyard, in their bright tricolor uniforms, armor and plumed helmets shining under the sun, their halberds proudly held upright.

The last strains of the band's music faded away. Vincent stood from his chair at the front of the assembled guests, dignitaries, and clergy, and stepped to the mike.

Dearest brothers. Today, you have taken an oath to serve me, and to defend me with your life, if necessary. But who am I to deserve such service and sacrifice? I am but a man, the same as any one of you. It is not me you serve and defend. It is the office. And that office is worth defending, insofar as it serves God, and the Church, and its people, the children of God.

Therefore, in return for your oath, I must promise to serve my office as faithfully and fully as I can. Each day I see you at your posts, standing in the heat of the summer, the chill of the winter, in rain, and in wind. And I pray to the Lord that I may be worthy of your service and sacrifice.

Vincent stepped back, and spread his arms.

"Humbly we pray to the Lord, to grant us strength to each do our part. Amen."

"Amen," the whole courtyard echoed.

Chapter Text

"Holy Father," said the student, hand tight on the mike passed on by the Q&A host. "How do we keep ourselves pure?"

"We don't," said Vincent.

"We don't?" the student's face twisted in confusion.

"No," said Vincent. "Any work worth doing requires getting our hands dirty. Have you ever baked bread?"

The student shook his head.

"I recommend you try. The dough will stick to your hands. You'll get flour all over the place. But there's nothing as satisfying as freshly baked bread right out of the oven."

"But doesn't the Bible say we should keep ourselves pure?"

"Yes. Blessed are the pure in heart," said Vincent. "But purity comes from closeness to God, and to our brethren. We don't get pure by avoiding impurity. Good work -- meaningful work -- moves us closer to God, and therefore purifies the heart. Baking bread. Tilling the earth. Binding wounds. Soothing pain. Being there for others."

"I..."

"Really, go bake bread," said Vincent. "Some things you need to experience to understand."

Chapter Text

First, he needed a place where he could bake bread,

So he called his grandmother. They weren't close. He only ever saw her when the family got together, even though his university was just the next town over.

But when he explained what the Pope had said, she told him to come over right away, they could bake bread together.

So he sat in her kitchen, and she showed him what to do. Dissolve the yeast in warm water. Measure the flour. Sift. Add salt, add water, add the yeast. Then the kneading. She watched him and said it was good to have young hands for this step. She no longer baked bread much because it was too tiring. He scraped the sticky dough from his fingers and kept kneading until the dough smoothed to a cohesive texture that could be formed into a round ball.

She made tea while they waited for the bread to rise. They talked of his studies at the university, of his plan to enter the seminary. She told him her brother had also wanted to be a priest. But he died in the war. He had vaguely heard of this great uncle, but hadn't known any details. She said it was a long time ago, and she hadn't really told his father much about it. There'd been talk about whether entering the seminary early could keep him out of the war, she said. But he had chosen to fight.

The bread had risen. She showed him how to punch out the air, and form it for baking. She told him more family stories while they waited for the bread to rise a second time, then while it was baking in the oven. He listened as the room gradually filled with the fresh yeasty smell.

When he returned to the dorm with the baked bread cradled in his arm, he wrote a letter to the Pope. He didn't really expect anything, but a week later, a reply arrived.

Thank you for letting me know. It said. Please tell your grandmother I shall say a rosary for her brother.

He toasted the last slice of the bread, and ate it with tea and jam. Then he finished filling out the application to the seminary.

Chapter Text

At this time of the year, morning sun hit just right through the windows, bathing the chapel in glowing gold.

Vincent knelt at the pew in front of the altar, rosary in hand. Thomas walked in, and knelt beside him.

"Who are we praying for today, Vincent?"

"Remember the young man who asked me about purity?"

"You told him to bake bread."

"And he did." Vincent handed Thomas the letter. Watched him read. "I am praying for his great uncle."

Thomas finished reading and handed back the letter. "I will pray for this young man, then. And for everyone who bakes bread."

Vincent smiled, raised the rosary and kissed the cross. Beside him, Thomas followed suit. Then they made the sign of the cross, and began.

I believe in God, the Father Almighty...

The letter hung on the wall of the seminary kitchen. Even from the distance, Ray recognized the signature. He stepped up close to read.

Thank you for letting me know. It said. Please tell your grandmother I shall say a rosary for her brother.

"I asked Pope Innocent a question at a Q&A session," the seminary director explained. "He told me to bake bread." The director gestured at the seminarians in the kitchen, in various stages of bread baking. "It's why when I became director here, I started having the seminarians bake their own bread."

Ray turned back to the letter. "And your grandmother's brother?"

"Well, I'd never baked bread before Pope Innocent told me to. So I asked my grandmother to show me how. And while we were waiting for the bread to rise, she told me about my great-uncle. I knew he had died in the war. What I hadn't known was that he had also thought about becoming a priest."

"Ah," Ray nodded. "His Holiness always said the rosary in the morning. Usually with Papa Thomas."

"The seminarians always pray to Papa Thomas before laying the dough down to rest," the director said. "They tell me the one time they forgot, the bread didn't rise!"

"Is that so?" Ray smiled. "Well, looks like that dough is ready to rest. Might I join your seminarians in this prayer?"

"Of course, Your Holiness," the director ushered Ray toward the bread racks. "We will be honored."

Chapter Text

Vincent stood at the main altar of St. Peter's Basilica, under the enormous dome. At this hour the place was closed to the public, with only a few staff and maintenance workers scattered here and there, adjusting things for tomorrow's Mass.

The vast cavern of the basilica stretched from the altar, down the circular steps, through the length of the nave, to the outer doors leading to the Square. Vincent took a slow steady inhale through his nose, and raised his hand to make the sign of the cross while intoning, En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo.

Amen. Thomas responded automatically, even as Vincent's deceptively soft voice reverberated through the space, causing staff and workers to pause and look up.

Vincent, unheeding, continued, El Señor esté con ustedes.

Thomas, unsure of the exact phrasing in Spanish, responded in English, And also with your spirit.

Señor ten piedad, Vincent said, skipping the Penitential Rite.

Lord have mercy, Thomas responded.

Gloria a Dios en el cielo, Vincent went on, and Thomas listened to the flowing cadence of the majestic prayer in Spanish, joining for the final Amen.

"You've got a wonderful voice, Holy Father," someone said. Thomas turned to see that Signore Filoni from Maintenance had walked up close to the altar. "I bet you don't need a mike," Filoni continued. "I could hear you all the way down there." He pointed to a spot halfway to the outer doors.

"These buildings were designed to carry sound," Vincent said, looking around once again at the surrounding space. "I've always wondered what speaking from here will feel like."

"Well, it sounds wonderful," Filoni repeated. "Any chance he could do it without the mike, Your Eminence?" he addressed Thomas.

"We do need to record the sound, for broadcast and online video," Thomas said. "Whether we can do without amplifying the sound through speakers in here?" He looked at the rows of empty seats stretching down. "The acoustics are going to be very different when there are people in here."

"What if we turned off the speakers for a bit?" Filoni asked. "We could turn it back on if it doesn't work. People will just think it was a technical glitch."

"That'd be a great experiment!" Vincent laughed. "We'll have to try it one day. But not tomorrow." He glanced at Thomas. "If we do that, Thomas will insist on being at the outer doors, to check that everyone can hear me. And tomorrow, I need him up here."

Thomas looked at the outer doors. "Yes, of course," he said. "But can we try something now?"

Gesturing at Vincent to stay where he was, Thomas walked away from the altar, down the steps, then through the center aisle. Filoni followed after a while, collecting other workers and staff as he went. Thomas turned at the outer doors, waited for the gathered group to settle around him, then raised his hand and waved at Vincent, standing alone at the altar.

Vincent spread his arms. A second later, his words wafted down through the vastness of the Basilica.

Amen, Thomas responded, along with everyone else.

In an apparent technical glitch, the speaker system in St. Peter's Basilica shut off several times today during the Mass presided by Pope Innocent. The Pope, unfazed, kept going. His voice carried well through the Basilica, says many who were there. Some even said they preferred his unfiltered voice to hearing it through the speakers. The fact that this glitch occurred only during sections when the Pope alone was speaking caused one particularly bold reporter to ask the Communication Director Cardinal Sabbadin whether it could possibly be deliberate sabotage. The Cardinal responded, "Did anyone report having trouble hearing the Holy Father? No? Then it isn't a particularly effective means of sabotage, is it?" He then concluded by saying the glitch is under investigation and updates will be released if any information is found.

Chapter Text

"It feels wrong to have this just to ourselves," Vincent said.

The entire city of Rome lay at their feet, the vista stretching over the buildings, to the river, to the ancient ruins beyond.

"Well, it's not like we can let tourists up here through the back staircase," said Thomas.

Vincent peered down over the edge of the roof into St. Peter's Square. "Can we build steps from there?" he asked.

Thomas peered down alongside Vincent. "Er... I don't know," he said. "We'd also have to do a structural analysis of the roof. See how much traffic it can bear."

"Well, can we do it?" Vincent said. "In the meanwhile, can we bring the orphaned kids from the refugee center here? That's not too big a group to bring up the back stairs, right?"

"Yes, Vincent," said Thomas.

"I'm sorry. I just created more work for you, didn't I?"

"Yes, Vincent." Thomas smiled fondly at Vincent's wind-swept hair. "You did."

Getting tickets for the elevator to the roof was hard. Half were given out online, the other half passed out every morning at the kiosk in St. Peter's Square. People lined up overnight for that. Mia didn't have that kind of time, so she kept entering the online lottery. She nearly fainted when she got the email saying she had a ticket.

She checked and double checked the size of the bag she'd be allowed to bring. She took out the tote bag that seemed to fit the specifications, and found the largest sketch pad that would fit in it. The drawing pencils went in the side pocket.

Mia's elevator group got held up when a couple wanted to bring up their baby in a stroller. The guide spoke to someone over the phone, then looked around at the group and asked if anyone was willing to switch to go up with the next group. Fortunately, a young man immediately volunteered, and the rest of the group was herded into the elevator, along with the couple, the stroller, and the baby.

At the top, Mia followed everyone off the elevator and onto the roof. And yes, it was as beautiful and breathtaking as she had imagined from the various pictures she'd seen. The buildings, the river, the sun reflecting off them, held shades and textures that challenged her skill. She quickly scanned for a position where she could draw undisturbed -- she had only thirty minutes after all -- and tucked herself into the corner furthest from the elevator, took out her pencil and sketchbook, and went to work.

She had gotten the rough outline of the buildings in place, and was starting to fill out more details, when she became aware of a Franciscan friar standing nearby, leaning on a cane to walk. Funny, she didn't remember seeing him in the elevator. His hood was up, so she couldn't see his face, especially as he turned to talk to the couple with the stroller, bending down to bless the baby. Looking further around, Mia saw that the guide was starting to round up the group. She sighed. She only had half as much detail as she wanted. She quickly turned back to her drawing, determined to get as much done as she could before she had to go.

"Let her stay," she heard the friar say.

She looked up. The guide was walking away, along with the couple and their baby. The friar turned to face her fully, kindly eyes looking on her from the depths of the hood.

"Might I borrow your pad?" said the Pope. "I'll write you a note saying you may stay for as long as you need."

Yes, Vincent. What is it.

I didn't say anything!

I know that look. It's the "I have more work for you" look.

Yes, okay. I just met a girl on the roof. She was drawing the landscape.

Yes, and?

She needed more than thirty minutes. I wrote her a note saying she can stay. But do many people do that?

... Right. Figure out a way to let people apply for permission to draw on the roof. Those with permission to be allowed to stay as long as they need.

Yes! Thank you, Thomas. Te quiero.

The things I do for you, Vincent.

Chapter Text

"Concert for the Poor?" Vincent asked. "Is there any actual poor people there?"

"It's to raise funds for --"

"Then call it a Fundraising Gala," said Vincent. "And this main performer -- can we ask him to sing a song or two in the Square afterwards? Where anyone can hear?"

"That would be a logistical and security nightmare," said Aldo.

"We don't announce it beforehand," said Ray. "Make it seem spontaneous. That way there's no rush of people trying to get in."

"Still a nightmare," said Aldo.

"But manageable," said Thomas.

"Can a group of kids from the projects coincidentally be there?"

"Vincent..."

The singer left the Audience Hall alongside the Pope, and together they made their way toward the tree in St. Peter's Square, a skeleton camera crew trailing. Inside the cordoned off section by the tree, under the watchful eyes of a cassocked priest, a group of school children clustered, round eyes gazing up at the lights. One child saw the Pope, and shouted. The Pope smiled as he and the singer slipped into the cordoned perimeter, and opened his arms, and the children ran laughing toward him.

The security quietly slid in place around the tree, tightening their guard. A small band appeared. Tourists milling around the Square gradually paused and gathered, as awareness that something unusual was happening seeped through the crowd.

The singer held a mike. He stood in the middle of the children, next to the Pope, and began singing a Carol. At the chorus, he gestured for the children to join in. The Pope sang along with the children.

The video screens positioned around the Square flicked on, showing closeups of the singing, while speakers carried the sound. The singer led the children through a few more Carols. Then his voice modulated into the opening strain of Ave Maria. His clear tenor carried through the air, first softly, gently, gradually rising, swelling with the fullness of grace bestowed on the world through a humble woman and her child, plaintively gliding through the supplication for prayer, now and at the hour of our death.

In the stillness after the last note faded away, the Pope raised his hand and made a sign of the cross over the gathered people. Then he turned, and he and the singer walked away.

Chapter Text

"Vincent? Where are you?" said Thomas.

"Here, Thomas," said Vincent.

Thomas looked. Vincent was tucked into a seat by the window, looking out at the falling snow. Thomas moved closer, looking out into the garden. The branches were starting to turn white with snow.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said Vincent.

"We'll need to move the General Audience tomorrow indoors," said Thomas.

"Ah, yes," Vincent chuckled. "Do I even have boots?"

"I'll ask Ray to find you a pair."

"And do you have boots?" asked Vincent. "Will you come with me for a walk?"

"Yes," said Thomas. "Once it stops snowing."

Chapter Text

Ray wheeled in a garment rack, full of various jackets and coats.

"Pope Benedict's coats were still in storage," he said. "They may not be your style, but they should fit."

Vincent eyed the rack, fingering a sleeve. Thomas picked a flowing greatcoat and settled it on Vincent's shoulders.

"We should get it adjusted to sit better," said Ray.

"Surely there's no need --"

"This is for public appearances," Thomas said, turning Vincent to stand in front of the full-length mirror. "See, Your Holiness?"

Vincent's eyes met Thomas in the mirror. "Yes," he said slowly. "I see."

Chapter Text

They walked through the garden, snow crunching under their feet. Above, snow-laden branches formed a canopy of white, somehow both softening and concentrating the light. Around, everything was white. Vincent too was white, in Benedict's down jacket with too long sleeves and too tight torso, over white cassock and white boots. Thomas was the only thing black in sight.

They moved carefully, slowly, placing each step with care, holding on to each other for balance. The cold gradually seeped in, even through thick coats.

"Come, let's go in," said Vincent. "I'll make chocolate. Spiked. With chili."

Thomas laughed, and followed.

Chapter Text

Thomas found A Child's Christmas in Wales on the web while Vincent was making up chocolate, and when Vincent sat beside him with the mugs, he started reading it to him. But it was slow going because the twisting grammar and images were hard even for Thomas to follow, and Vincent started tossing out Spanish to check if he understood, and eventually managed to match the rhythm and cadence but then it was beyond Thomas to tell if the meaning matched the English.

Nevertheless they managed to get to where the kids tossed snowballs to put out the fire, and by that time Vincent was curled up against Thomas' side like a hugely content cat, and Thomas thought he should tell Vincent to go to bed, then get up and into his coat and boots and walk through the snow and dark of St. Peter's Square to go home, but Vincent slid deeper into his side and said stay, the bed is big enough for two.

Thomas looked at Vincent, and Vincent said to sleep, Thomas.

So Thomas got into the too-short too-tight sweatpants Vincent gave him to sleep, and dreamed of snow-covered Christmases rolling down to morning.

Chapter Text

Vincent walked through the Square, greatcoat flowing gracefully with each step.

"Brilliant, getting him into Benedict's coat," Sabbadin remarked. "How did you talk him into it?"

"Cardinal Lawrence --"

"Ah. The Pope whisperer."

"His Holiness isn't a man who can be manipulated, Eminence," Ray said. "He listens because he trusts the Dean."

"Trust? Is that what we are calling it?"

"Mutual respect? Understanding?" Ray turned to fully face Sabbadin. "Affection."

Sabbadin blinked. "What are you --"

"The Dean will do what's best for His Holiness, and His Holiness knows it," Ray said. "That's why the Dean can whisper."

"And what is good for the Pope is good for the Church?"

"That, I would think, is up to the Pope. You picked him, what do you think?"

Sabbadin looked again at Vincent, who was now working the line of people gathered near the entrance to the Audience Hall. The white coat flicked as he moved from one person to next. He cradled a baby that was thrust at him, swaying soothingly until it calmed down before blessing it, then handing it securely into the waiting arms of the beaming grateful mother, bypassing intervening security guards.

"Yes," said Sabbadin. "He is good."

Chapter Text

"What did you do to Sabbadin, Ray?"

"Do? Your Holiness."

"I've been wondering that, too," said Thomas. "He said 'Good morning'!"

"Surely he greets everyone."

"Not really," Thomas elaborated. "He mostly just nods at people in passing. He only stops and greets people properly when he thinks they are worth it."

"Does he?"

"So are you going to tell us what happened?" Vincent asked.

"Nothing that concerns you, Your Holiness."

Vincent looked at Ray. "Very well," he said. "What's next?"

So, Thomas. What's up with Ray and Giulio, do you know?

Well, Vincent asked Ray.

And?

He said it shouldn't concern him.

Okay. So it's about Vincent.

Leave it alone, Aldo. It's taken care of.

You're sure about that?

If it becomes a problem, we'll deal with it then. Right now they seem to have an understanding.

Alright then.

Yup.

Chapter Text

He knew, from the moment a gentle hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up into eyes the color of Fredi's.

His body would always respond to this man. What he hadn't known, even as he bound Thomas to himself, to the office, was if Thomas felt it too. Thomas' eyes would soften and linger, on Agnes, on Judith and Miriam, on female forms. Sometimes he thought he saw -- but Thomas was careful, no one he looked at ever noticed. And it was better if he never actually knew, right?

But then Thomas reached out, and took his hand.

Thomas watched Aldo's back, moving away down the hall.

"You like him," said Vincent.

Thomas looked, into eyes open and clear.

"He is my friend," Thomas said. "My brother."

Vincent looked to the corner Aldo had disappeared around. "You voted for him," he said. "He voted for you."

"I didn't know," Thomas said. "And when he finally told me..." his lips tightened, clenching on twisting bitterness. "He said to vote for Tremblay."

Vincent turned to Thomas.

Thomas reached out. Took Vincent's hand, thumb softly rubbing over the fisherman's ring.

"And I didn't," Thomas said, "because you wouldn't."

Chapter Text

It comes and goes. In flashes. In longer coiling loops. A jolt down his spine. Heat curling in his stomach, pooling in his groins. Suspended low pleasure suffusing his body through nights spent pressed against Thomas, surrounded by warmth. Sometimes it feels too much and he shifts away. More often he leans in and breathes until it dissolves. Once he finds himself clutching at Thomas, swept in a wave so powerful he is inside out, Thomas' arms around him steady and secure, as his breath returns to normal like nothing and everything happened, Thomas with him through it all.

Until Vincent, desire was something to be controlled. To be kept in check, reined in, sublimated. He gloried in rising above it, in resisting its pull.

But cancer had taken that away. Left him impotent, a shriveled knight without a battle field.

But then Vincent...

With Vincent, desire was a spring, welling afresh. Dark eyes calling him home. Sweet breath stirring depths he hadn't known to feel. A calm encompassing acceptance embracing all he was and could be.

With Vincent, desire just was. In him, with him, around him. Walking, praying, breathing. Holding, keeping, grounding. Beautiful, precious, and... Vincent.

Chapter Text

The attendant took the life-size wooden figurine of baby Jesus from the stand, and carried it to Vincent.

Vincent carefully lifted the figurine from the attendant's hands, tenderly cradling it against his heart, black curls framing his face as he gazed into the baby's eyes --

"Looks like the Madonna, doesn't he," said Aldo.

Thomas turned to Aldo.

"It's okay, Thomas," Aldo said. "Everyone is thinking it."

Thomas looked back at Vincent, now walking toward the nativity display, figurine in his arms, simple gold vestment swaying with his steps.

Unto us a Child is born, Thomas thought. A Son given. (Isaiah 9:6)

Chapter Text

"So the idea is that I stand on the balcony, and say 'Merry Christmas' in multiple languages?" asked Vincent.

"Yes," said Aldo. "We will have the phrases printed for you --"

"Printed?" Vincent frowned. "Wouldn't that be stilted, to read from paper? Can I just do the languages I know?"

Aldo looked pleadingly over Vincent's head at Thomas. Thomas mentally counted the languages Vincent knew. "It should be okay, I think," he said.

Vincent beamed. Aldo looked dissatisfied but did not argue.

At noon on Christmas day, Vincent stepped onto the balcony over St. Peter's, and waved until the crowd subsided. Then he raised his arms and said, "Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum." The crowd tittered, recognizing the phrase. "Quia natus est vobis hodie salvator," Vincent concluded. The crowd cheered in approval. (I announce to you a great joy, for today a Savior is born to you.)

"Buon Natale," Vincent said. "Merry Christmas, Felix Natal, Joyeux Noël..." He did German, Russian, Ukrainian, which was received with loud and sustained cheering, and Greek, after which Thomas got lost as Vincent ran through a number of languages Thomas assumed were the ones spoken in Turkey and the Middle East. He did catch the phrases in Dari and Pashto Vincent had taught him the other day.

Aldo's eyebrows climbed as Vincent kept going. From the reactions of the clergy from various countries as well as from the waving of flags in the Square, Thomas surmised that Vincent had tossed out a few African languages before doing Urdu and Hindi. Chinese, Thomas recognized. Vincent then amazingly managed to say "Merry Christmas" with Korean and Japanese accents, followed by the more formal native phrases in each language. Then he did Tagalog, Thai, and what Thomas guessed was Māori, from the mad waving of New Zealand flags.

Vincent paused, finally seeming to run out of languages. "Lo siento," he said. "No puedo recordar más. Feliz Navidad!"

Beside Thomas, Aldo heaved a deep sigh, and shook his head. Thomas smiled as Vincent came off the balcony toward them, his face bright with excitement.

"That was fun!" he said. "How did I do?"

"You could have told us you knew that many phrases," Aldo grumbled.

"Oh, I remembered more than I thought!" Vincent laughed. "And David over there," he gestured at a priest standing nearby, "taught me the Māori."

"Still, that was impressive," Thomas said.

"I do have perfect pitch," Vincent explained. "It helps to think of them as music, not words."

Thomas' face twisted as he tried to wrap his brain around that concept. Aldo rolled his eyes and muttered "Lord help us," under his breath.

Chapter Text

Thomas watched Vincent push hair back from his eyes yet again. "Perhaps you should get that cut?" he said.

"Oh, yes," said Vincent. "Remind me to ask Ray for scissors."

"Scissors?"

"Do you use something else to cut hair at the Vatican?"

"No, but..."

They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.

"We have a barber," Thomas finally said.

"Ah," Vincent nodded. "This length," he gestured to his hair. "Is the shortest I can cut it myself."

"I like that length," Thomas admitted.

"You do?" Vincent smiled shyly. He looked back down at the document he'd been reading. "So, scissors?"

Chapter Text

When I thought of Manderley in my waking hours I would not be bitter. I should think of it as it might have been, could I have lived there without fear. -- Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

It could have been so very different, he knew.

Every little thing he wanted could have been met with, "The Late Holy Father did it this way." "That is not something we do." "You have to understand, Your Holiness, that..."

Instead, there is Ray, and Agnes. Tactical magicians, seemingly pulling things he needs and wants out of thin air. Simple, functional sofa set. Comfortable t-shirts and sweatpants to wear to bed. Unscented shampoo that leaves his hair with just the slightest hint of shine and spring. His spices and teas quietly refilled as they run low.

Aldo always raises a host of objections, obsessively cataloging everything that could go wrong, but never says no. He's a cat, twitching incessantly as he aims, then pouncing decisively with precision.

And Thomas. The mirror, the sounding board. Rock, shield, salvation. Through him, all things seem possible.

"Vincent? Where are you?"

"Here, Thomas." Always.

Chapter Text

Thomas opened his eyes. The room was dark. There was a pull on the blanket that left a gap, through which the night air curled down along his side. Vincent sat huddled in a small, tremulous ball, so near the edge of the bed, Thomas thought he might topple off.

"Vincent?" Thomas uncrossed his arms and sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Oh," Vincent raised his head. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, that's okay." Thomas untangled his rosary and wrapped it around one hand. He held out the other hand toward Vincent. "Come here?"

Vincent obligingly shuffled closer.

"You okay?" Thomas frowned. "Are you shaking?"

Vincent sighed, and tumbled into Thomas' side. "Nightmare," he said.

"Nightmare?" Thomas asked, as he wrapped his arm around Vincent. "What was it?"

Vincent was still, as if thinking about how to put it into words. Finally, he said, "Ray never found out about Geneva. Or he never told you."

Thomas blinked. "That is a nightmare?"

Vincent huffed. "So..." he stretched out that syllable. "You are kind, but formal." His lips turned down into a miserable grimace. "You don't quite tell me exactly what you think."

Oh. Thomas felt a pit drop open in his stomach. His hand reflexively clenched on Vincent's shoulder.

"And Aldo..." Vincent continued. "Aldo is cold, and distant, and he's always quoting all these theologians. Making me feel inadequate I haven't studied theology beyond seminary."

Erm. Aldo did do that. But only to people he...

"He doesn't like you?"

Vincent uncurled, stretching his legs alongside Thomas', while leaning his upper body back against the headboard.

"Don't you see?" he said. "You buffer both ways. Aldo objects, you field, tell him my way will work -- and he trusts you. Without you..."

Yes, that would be a total disaster. Thomas shuddered.

"And then... There are these little things. None of my clothes fit well. I have silk pajamas. The shampoo makes my hair dry and stick out, I don't have a place I can cook, the tea is horribly bland..."

"Agnes isn't here?"

"I don't know. I either never asked her to take over the household, or she said no. Then the miter..."

"The miter?"

Vincent nodded. "It was too big. But no one tried to find something smaller, and I didn't dare say I won't wear it. So it fell over my eyes during Easter Mass, and I fell down and broke my foot."

Thomas felt his mouth drop open, aghast at the sheer absurdity of this particular horror.

"And," Vincent continued, "I couldn't sneak out because Johann called the Chief, and the mumps outbreak among Afghan refugees wasn't caught in time, and people died. And then the LGBTQ meeting..."

"The meeting?" Thomas remembered that day. When Vincent had told him he was attracted to men. Thomas had fought so hard not to react. To not do or say something that could be taken the wrong way. How fragile that moment had felt, more so than the confrontation in the Room of Tears. Because in that conversation over Geneva, there was no trust yet between them that could be broken. But that one last leap...

"I didn't tell you," Vincent was saying. "How could I? I couldn't tell anyone. So I sat and listened to them tell their stories, not being able to say anything. They probably thought I was cold and distant, and I felt like I was dying inside..."

Thomas gathered Vincent into his arms, cradling him close. The rosary beads around his hand pressed into Vincent's back, the cross sliding along the soft fabric of his T-shirt. He wondered if his own body was trembling now -- he couldn't tell. His soul certainly was.

"All this..." he whispered. This closeness, this absolute trust, this love. "Is because Ray told me?"

Vincent nodded into Thomas' chest.

Thomas remembered Ray, pale faced and shaken, watching Vincent sign the acceptance of office. How he had hesitated, started to walk away, then turned back to Thomas. Eminence, I have a great burden on my conscience.

"Then thank God," he said, "for Ray."

Vincent just held on tighter.

Chapter Text

Thomas sat in the back pew of the chapel, leaning back against the wood. Ray entered, and came quietly to stand by him.

"I've cleared His Holiness' schedule for the morning," he said. "Cardinals Bellini and Sabbadin will divide up his meetings between them."

"Thank you, Ray." Thomas gestured at the space beside himself. "Please, sit."

Ray sat. "What happened?" he asked. "Does His Holiness need a doctor?"

"Eventually, probably," Thomas said. "Right now, I persuaded him to take some sleeping pills. I'm hoping he'll sleep for as long as possible. Hence..." He waved his hand at the chapel.

"What exactly is it, Your Eminence?"

"Thomas. What I need to tell you, isn't from a Cardinal. Maybe not even from a priest."

"Yes, Thomas."

"So Vincent... You know he sometimes has trouble sleeping at night, but last night... or maybe we should say this morning... he woke up trembling. Said he had a nightmare."

"A nightmare."

"Yes. You hadn't told me about Geneva."

Ray blinked. "That's a nightmare?"

"That's what I said," Thomas huffed. "But because I didn't know, we didn't become close. And from there, everything else just... went wrong."

"Oh," Ray thought about it. "I hadn't thought that would be so consequential."

"Well, it is," said Thomas. "It was crucial. You are crucial."

Ray sat, silently weighing that.

"And we never told you any details about it, right?" said Thomas.

"If it's not something I need to know..."

"But you do. Like you said he needs a doctor. Doctors. Someone to oversee his general health, and someone to talk to about all the traumatic experiences he's been through. He's been in war zones. He said he's seen bodies laid out... But he's never told me more about that."

"And in order to find the right doctors..."

"Yes. I can't do this alone."

"And does His Holiness..."

"Vincent," Vincent said, as he walked into the chapel. "It's Vincent."

Ray stood up, and Vincent slipped into the pew, immediately snuggling up against Thomas. "I woke up, and you weren't there," he said.

Thomas snagged an arm around Vincent's shoulder, and tugged him close. "You should try and sleep some more," he said.

"Mmmm," said Vincent. "What did you do with my meetings?"

"They are taken care of, Your Holiness," Ray said. Vincent looked reproachfully at Ray. "...Vincent."

"I was just telling Ray," said Thomas, "that he should know the full story about Geneva."

"Ah, yes," Vincent nodded. He untangled himself from Thomas, and stood. "Well, come on. I need tea. Then we'll talk."

Chapter Text

Michelina was at her desk, filling out paperwork, when someone knocked at the open door. She looked up. A man stood there. Tall, middle aged, glasses. Khaki pants, sports jacket, no tie.

"Dr. Fracassi?" the man asked.

"Yes. May I help you?"

The man took a step into the room. "I'm Raymond O'Malley," he said. "Sister Agnes gave me your name."

"Ah, yes," Michelina nodded, gesturing to the patient's chair. O'Malley carefully lowered himself into it. "She said you are a Monsignor?"

"Yes," O'Malley glanced down at his clothes. "I am trying... not to draw attention."

Michelina considered that, then got up and closed the door. She walked back to her desk and sat. "So, what is this about?" she asked.

"I have a friend," said O'Malley. "He's in need of a doctor."

"This friend is clergy?" O'Malley nodded. "At the Vatican?" Another nod. "Aren't there doctors at the Vatican?"

"There is," O'Malley acknowledged. "But his circumstances are... unusual. He needs a different level of discretion and sensitivity."

"More discretion, than regular doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"Yes, exactly. Plus, well... Sr. Agnes says you have experience working with survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault."

Michelina's eyes widened. "Are you saying..."

"No," said O'Malley. "At least nothing recent. I can't speak to anything that may have happened before he came to the Vatican. That topic hasn't come up. And actually, he has experience working with sexual violence victims. Ran clinics for them, and such."

Michelina blinked. There was one priest currently at the Vatican that she had heard of who had such a background. But surely he couldn't be the only priest there with such experience, right?

"I'm still not getting why you've come to me," Michelina settled on asking.

"So he has erratic sleeping patterns," O'Malley explained. "We had thought it was just idiosyncratic habit, but a few days ago, he woke up trembling from what he said was a very disturbing nightmare. I won't try to describe the nightmare -- its best to hear it from him directly if you agree to help us. But basically, we are looking for some guidance on whether we need to seek psychiatric care."

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to just ask a psychiatrist?"

"I understand why you would think that," said O'Malley. "But we also need someone to take over his general care. And yes, normally, we'd just find someone from the doctors already working at the Vatican. But his situation is... rather unique."

"You said that already."

"Yes," O'Malley huffed a small laugh. "It bears repeating, I'm afraid. For one thing, he is a man in his mid-60s, with almost no medical records to speak of."

"What?"

"I know. According to him, his family was poor, and he saw no doctors growing up. He did get vaccinations through the public vaccination programs in his home country. He then entered seminary, was ordained, and served in all sorts of places, and somehow never needed significant medical care until he was injured by a car bomb while in Baghdad."

"Oh. And?"

"And he says the doctor who cared for him then was later killed in a separate bombing. Whether any records still exist in Baghdad from that time is anyone's guess."

"But how long is it since he came to the Vatican? He still hasn't picked a general physician?"

"Well," O'Malley said. "I'm afraid we've been putting it off. Because it's... complicated."

Michelina raised an eyebrow.

"I know, I already said that," said O'Malley. "The thing is, he has a... condition, that was only discovered when he was injured in Baghdad. And it's crucial that only the minimum possible people know of this condition."

"I feel like I've been dropped in the middle of a bad spy novel."

"Yes," O'Malley chuckled. "That's not an inappropriate analogy." He leaned forward, and looked straight into Michelina's eyes. "If you agree to care for him, yes, you will be a character in a bad spy novel. But he's also the best person it's ever been my pleasure to work for. When he looks at you, he really sees you. It's the most incredible feeling. So," O'Malley held out his hand to Michelina. "What do you say?"

Michelina took a deep breath. "When does His Holiness wish me to come see him?"

Chapter Text

"He's the classic isolated wife, Agnes." Michelina said.

She looked around the gazebo they were sitting in, and at the Vatican gardens spreading out beyond. There was no one in sight, but... She wondered if she was being too paranoid.

"Is it okay to talk here?" she asked, just to be sure.

"This place," Agnes said, indicating the gazebo, "is swept daily for bugs."

Michelina stared at Agnes in disbelief.

Agnes shrugged. "The Pope is a head of state," she said. "A very tiny, micro-mini state, to be sure, but still a state. We take precautions."

"And what about Monsignor O'Malley, and the Dean?" Michelina asked. "If they wanted to listen in on us, or to keep tabs on the Pope? No, I'm not saying they would," she assured Agnes. "But if they wanted to, they could, right? That's how this place is organized?"

Agnes tilted her head, considering. "I suppose," she conceded. "Place a bug here while we were inside with Vincent, then pick it up before the next sweep -- yes, they could. And of course, I could, too. I could probably do it the best. My position as the head of the household means I can be anywhere in the apartments at any time and not be questioned."

"Obviously, none of you would," Michelina hastened to say. "You all love and respect him very much. I see that. But the extent of his dependency on his staff, Agnes... He says he doesn't have access to his own bank account! When he wants to move money..."

"Ray does it for him," Agnes acknowledged. "When he wants something, food, clothes, personal items, he tells me or Ray, and we get it for him. He can't go anywhere on his own, because he'd immediately be recognized. Taking even a step outside the restricted Vatican grounds is an entire complicated production. Still," Agnes looked down at her folded hands, then looked up again. "The previous Holy Fathers all lived under the same conditions. They didn't have anxiety attacks, as far as I'm aware."

"Well, but they were either prominent members of the Curia, or Archbishops of major dioceses, before they became Pope, right?" Michelina pointed out. "They would have been used to this type of lifestyle, with staff, and a high degree of scrutiny, even if not at such an intense level as the Pope. Plus, I would think they all had support networks outside the Vatican, right? Pope Benedict, I believe, had a brother he was close to. The previous Holy Father had nephews and grandnephews who visited him regularly. Pope Innocent..."

"Has sisters, but isn't very close to them, I know," Agnes sighed. "He left home so young, and has been working outside his country for so long."

"Normally, with an isolated wife situation, what I'd recommend is to form more social connections, and to physically get out. Go shopping. Go see a movie. Do something for yourself. Join a club, take some classes, do volunteer work. Unfortunately, in this case..."

"Yes, the problem is obvious," Agnes agreed. "The solution... not so much."

Chapter Text

Vincent pulled his battered old briefcase out from the closet. He reached inside and dug out the two letter size envelopes, with their thick wads of cash -- one Euro, the other US dollars. Then there were the passports. He flipped through them, checking the expiration dates. Some of them were getting close.

He put them down, and closed his eyes. Asking Aldo to issue new ones would just lead to uncomfortable conversations. And really, how far would he get? He had the most recognizable face in the world. There were tricks he could use to avoid recognition, but passing passport control wasn't possible, not really.

He thought about all the places in the EU that he could get to without showing a passport. He could go for a few days, maybe a week, without being found. But there was a limit to the number of days he could pass without someone getting a good look at his face.

And where would he go to? When he was in the Congo, Iraq, Afghanistan, the goal was to make it back to Rome. Now he was in Rome.

It wasn't like he anticipated needing to leave. This was where God had put him. He had people here who loved and supported him. Ray. Agnes. Aldo. Thomas. Especially Thomas.

But Dr. Fracassi was right. Knowing that you could leave was important, even if that need never materialized.

He put the money and the passports back into the briefcase, and the briefcase back into the closet. He turned around and looked at the windows looking out over the Square. The ones that were never opened, except for the one from which he gave the Angelus and the Regina Caeli, because if he did, he would be seen from the Square.

He walked to the intercom and pressed the button. "Johann?" he said. "I am going for a walk in the garden. I don't want to see anyone."

"Understood," Johann responded. "I'll pass on the word, Your Holiness."

"Thank you," Vincent said. And walked out of the room, toward the back staircase.

Chapter Text

"He said he wants to see no one, Your Eminence."

"And does no one include me?" Thomas asked. "Don't worry," he added when Johann hesitated. "I'll come right back out if he doesn't want me there."

Johann inclined his head and stepped aside.

Thomas turned the corner toward the gazebo, and jumped as a startled cat ran past his feet.

"You interrupted the hunt, Thomas," Vincent laughed from where he was sitting inside the gazebo. "It was stalking something."

"Did I just save some poor critter, then?" Thomas commented as he walked up next to Vincent.

"And what about the cat? Doesn't it need food?"

"The Sisters feed it."

"Do they?" Vincent patted the space next to himself on the bench. Thomas sat. "Yet, the cat still hunts," Vincent noted.

Thomas considered that. "What do you need, Vincent?" he asked.

"To hunt?" Vincent laughed. "I don't know, Thomas. Something. I need to feel like I'm being useful."

"The mumps crisis," said Thomas.

"Well, maybe not the 250 thank-you notes," Vincent scoffed. "But yes, that was something useful."

"I'll think of something."

"We, Thomas. We'll think of something."

"Yes, Vincent," Thomas agreed. "We will."

Chapter Text

"When did you learn to cook?" Michelina asked.

Vincent paused in his chopping. "Hmmm," he mused. "I always liked to help my mother and grandmother in the kitchen. I preferred that to playing outside with the other kids. I think my mother may have been disturbed by that. She would sometimes tell me to go away and play. But my grandmother told her to let me be."

He finished chopping the vegetables and scraped them into a bowl. "I sometimes wonder if my mother knew," he said, as he took the chicken out of the refrigerator. "Or perhaps just felt something was... off. That there was something different about me." He put the chicken down on the cutting board and began breaking it down expertly. "I always thought that her sending me away to school was about having one less mouth to feed. And of course, ensuring that I had food. But now... Now, I wonder if she thought living in the dorms, having my own bed, showers and bathrooms with closed doors... That that would shield me. Protect me."

He turned to get the baking pan, and began laying the cut chicken in it, seasoning it with salt, pepper, and spices. "Of course, I did not know back then to ask. And by the time I found out, she was gone."

"Does that bother you?" Michelina asked. "That she may have known, and not told you?"

"No," Vincent said, as he added the vegetables to the pan. "How could she tell me something she barely understood, that she didn't have words for?" He took the pot off the stove and scooped the tomato-based sauce onto the chicken and vegetables. "She did the best she knew how. She made sure I received good education and was cared for. Even when the cost was letting me go."

Michelina watched as he sprinkled breadcrumbs and cheese on top of the sauce, and turned to place the pan into the oven. "Do you wonder what it would have been like?" she asked. "If you had grown up as a girl?"

"Of course," Vincent said, as he washed his hands and dried them on a towel. "It may have made some things easier, certainly. Like being teased for being small, not being able to keep up with the boys my age. But then... I never looked like a girl, either, did I? My body parts looked like a boy's, especially when I was a child. And I never developed breasts."

"You are sure you don't want to consult experts? Determine exactly what condition you have?"

"Is there any reason to?" Vincent asked, as he poured himself a mug of tea. He gestured for Michelina to pick up her mug, and follow him to the sofa. He let her sit first, then sat down next to her.

"It might be relevant to your ongoing care," Michelina pointed out.

"I do not enjoy being poked around," said Vincent. "If it becomes relevant, we'll find out when it happens."

"And Dean Lawrence is okay with that?"

"Oh," Vincent laughed. "Thomas is not my keeper, even if he likes to hover!"

"But you are close."

"Yes," Vincent acknowledged. "I wouldn't know what to do here without Thomas. In many things, I defer to his expertise. But the amount of work I end up making for him because of my ideas... That's not anyone's idea of being in control."

"But you do depend on him to do them for you."

"Yes. That was the nightmare. Is. But you know what? It's okay. If not Thomas, I'll find some other way. I have to. Because..." Vincent looked up, his eyes on something far away. "Do I wish I could have grown up knowing what I was? Yes. But that life wouldn't have been better. Ignorance of my condition got me here." He nodded at the room, the Palace, the entire Vatican complex. "Had I known, had people known... I wouldn't have been allowed to be a priest. I doubt I would have found a place in any kind of religious life at all. And now that I am here, perhaps I can change that. For people growing up now. For the ones not yet born."

Michelina looked at Vincent. At the radiant energy pouring off him. It almost made her believe he could do it. Yet... "That is very ambitious," she said. The smell of baking chicken crept through the room, curling around the sofa and wafting toward the doorway.

"Oh, this smells delicious!" Thomas said, as he walked in the door. "Is this for dinner? What is it?"

"Yes, Thomas," Vincent said, standing to walk toward the other man. "I'm baking chicken. Dr. Fracassi is staying for dinner."

"Really? That's wonderful!" Thomas said, as he bent to kiss Vincent on the cheek. He turned to Michelina. "Were you done? I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"No," Michelina said. "We were just talking."

Chapter Text

Thomas turned the hot water dial all the way open without adding any cold water, and let the resulting scalding water sluice down his back. He closed his eyes, absorbed in the pain and heat.

Suddenly, the shower door opened, and Vincent stepped in, still in his t-shirt and sweatpants. He grabbed the dial and shut off the hot water, then immediately turned on the cold. He ignored Thomas' flinch as the cold water hit them, and began slowly turning the hot water dial, tweaking the water temperature until it was just tepid, not chillingly cold.

"You are getting wet," Thomas said.

"You are burning yourself," Vincent glared. "I could see the steam coming out of the bathroom! Here," he grabbed Thomas by the arm and positioned him under the water. "Stay here until that cools down."

Thomas meekly stood there stark naked, while Vincent stepped out of the shower and began stripping off his now soaked clothes. Thomas watched as Vincent bent and straightened, bare skin flashing, the scars crisscrossing his belly white against brown skin. Vincent looked down at his underwear, which was also soaked, sighed and stripped that off too. Before Thomas could decide to avert his gaze, Vincent had grabbed the towels off the rack, wrapping one around his waist. The other one he set down on the closed toilet lid, and proceeded to hang his wet clothes on the rack.

"What is Sr. Agnes going to make of this?" he said, fingering the wet clothes.

"She won't say anything," Thomas said.

"I know, which makes me feel worse." Vincent shook his head. He turned and came over to Thomas, gently turning him so he could check his back. "Okay, that looks cool enough. Turn off the water and come on out."

Thomas obeyed and grabbed the towel off the toilet to wrap around his waist, while Vincent bent down to retrieve the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink. He nodded at Thomas to precede him out of the bathroom, then grabbed the bathrobe as they walked past the door. Once in the bedroom, Vincent walked straight to the bed and put down the first aid kit, while Thomas hesitated. Vincent turned to Thomas while shrugging into the bathrobe, pointed to the bed, and said "sit."

Thomas sat.

Vincent pulled a jar of medicinal cream from the first aid kit and clambered onto the bed to sit behind Thomas. He started dabbing the cream on Thomas' back, his touch gentle and sure. The cream stung on first touch but quickly turned soothing.

"I'm sorry," Thomas said.

"What for?" Vincent asked.

Thomas thought it over. "I'm not sure," he finally said.

Vincent huffed a laugh, patted Thomas' back, and continued slathering cream.

"Is this about me?" Vincent asked. "Us?"

"No!" Thomas denied immediately, but then sighed. It was the truth, and not quite. "I just... do this."

"Like how you sleep?"

"Yes, kind of."

"Not every day, I hope?"

"No."

"What brings it on?"

"I'm not sure. Sometimes it's, like, I need to wake up. Like when I gave the homily for the Conclave..."

Vincent's hand stopped. "You said that Mass, wearing all that vestments, after you did this? Did you even put on any... but most of this is in your back. Of course you couldn't..." He sighed.

"I'm sorry," Thomas said again.

Vincent went back to rubbing on cream. After a while, he spoke again. "And today? Did you feel like you need to wake up?"

Thomas thought it over. "Too much feeling," he decided. "I don't know where to put it."

"Hmmmm." Vincent seemed to decide that Thomas' back had enough cream. He closed the jar, put it back into the first aid kit, then flipped down on the bed, lying on his back looking up into the ceiling. "You know," he said. "It's okay to feel."

"Is it?" Thomas said. "It feels dangerous."

"The danger is the point!" said Vincent. "That makes you feel alive. Not hot water."

"Oh."

"Here," Vincent got up. "I think I have a soft t-shirt that should fit you. Should act as a kind of bandage. And I'll ask Ray to make us an hour off around lunch. So I can put more cream on your back."

"Er, you know what that's going to look like?"

Vincent dissolved into a puddle of rolling laughter.

"At 6.30 a.m., the alarm sounded throughout the Casa Santa Marta -- a clanging seminary bell. Lomeli opened his eyes. He was curled up on his side. He felt groggy, raw. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, only that it couldn’t have been for more than an hour or two. The sudden remembrance of all he had to do in the coming day passed over him like a wave of nausea, and for a while he lay unable to move. Normally his waking routine was to meditate for fifteen minutes then rise and say his morning prayers. But on this occasion, when at last he managed to summon the will to put his feet to the floor, he went directly into the bathroom and ran a shower as hot as he could bear. The water scourged his back and shoulders. He twisted and turned beneath it and cried out in pain. Afterwards he rubbed away the moisture on the mirror and surveyed with disgust his raw and scalded skin."

Chapter Text

"You can't just blow off the meeting with Knights of Malta," Aldo said.

"I know. Which is why I'm asking you..."

"Substituting me is blowing them off," Aldo said. "What's the emergency?"

Vincent looked at Thomas. Thomas stared down at his hands folded on his lap. "I burned my back," he admitted.

Aldo glanced sharply at Thomas. "Did the water dial get stuck?" he asked.

Thomas didn't answer. Aldo turned back to Vincent.

"So his back needs tending. Do you have to personally do it? We have medics..."

"Any competent caregiver would realize it wasn't an accident," said Vincent.

"The medical personnel are discreet..."

"If any of our medical people see this and don't call for psychological intervention, I'd have to fire them," said Vincent. "The only reason I'm not firing myself is because I intend to talk this over with Thomas," he looked at Thomas. "Psychological consultation isn't off the table."

Aldo sighed. "Then maybe I should fire myself."

"No. You are taking the Malta meeting. And coming up with a plausible excuse."

"Right." Aldo thought for a minute. "A sensitive matter has come up that requires the Holy Father's personal attention. He sends his deepest regrets, and looks forward to visiting the Knight's headquarters."

"I am?"

"You are now," Aldo said. "Thomas, you have another papal trip to plan. Is that going to set off another scalding session?"

"I don't know," said Thomas. "I never know what brings it on."

"That's something we should figure out," said Vincent. "Aldo knows of previous episodes? Perhaps he can help with that?"

Aldo and Thomas looked at each other.

"Perhaps," Aldo finally said. "Right now, I have a meeting to attend." He stood up and turned to leave.

"Aldo," Vincent said. "Thank you."

Aldo turned and nodded, then left.

Chapter Text

Aldo walked into the room, then paused. "Where's Thomas?" he asked.

Vincent led the way into the kitchenette and started making tea. "He said he has some work to do on the budget," he replied. "People to talk to, to coordinate something or other."

"And his back?"

"It's fine." Vincent poured hot water into the tea pot. He handed Aldo the mugs, and they walked to the sofa, where they sat side by side, setting the pot and mugs down on the coffee table. "I think it'll be okay to apply the cream just twice a day. No need for a lunch break tomorrow."

"So you can stick to your schedule tomorrow?" said Aldo. "That's a relief."

"Did anything come up in the meeting with Knights of Malta I should know about?"

"Frankly, no."

Vincent lifted the lid of the tea pot to check the tea and decided to let it steep longer.

"How often does he do this?" he asked.

"I'm really not sure. I'm sure the times I'm aware of are just a fraction."

"He told me he did it the day he gave his homily. At the Conclave."

"See? I didn't know that."

"Do you know if he has done it since?"

"You'd be in a better position than me to know that."

Vincent poured the tea into the mugs.

Aldo picked up his mug and took a sip. "I had thought," he said, "that perhaps, being with you, he might not..." He took another sip. "He seems so much more centered. Happy, even."

"I don't know how he was, before," said Vincent. "I could tell he was under a lot of stress during the Conclave, and also -- sad."

"You came, and caught us at our worst moment, I'm afraid," Aldo mused. "Called us out magnificently for it."

"I..."

"No, never doubt you've been good for him, and for the Church," Aldo said. "I have to admit, it did surprise me a bit, how close you've become. I've never known him to let anyone in like he has with you."

"Humph!" said Vincent. "Not that I've ever had a relationship like this before, either. The only thing that ever came somewhat close was Fredi..."

"He disappeared in Peru?"

"Yes," Vincent looked up, eyes turned far away toward the door. "Even now I feel like he might just walk in any moment, rib me about ending up being the Pope..." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "It's a silly fancy, of course. If he is alive and has willingly stayed away all this years, that's not someone who relates to the world the way he did when I knew him. And there's no way someone has kept him alive in captivity all these years. There's no political reason for that, and it's physically impossible."

Vincent looked down and stared into his mug. "Anyway," he said, "why am I talking about Fredi? You came to talk about Thomas."

"No," said Aldo. "This is about you as much about Thomas."

"It is?"

"You are a part of each other now. For better, or worse. What affects one affects the other."

"Oh." Vincent took a deep breath.

"That ring some bells?"

"Yes, some," Vincent admitted. "I'll talk to Thomas. Thanks, Aldo."

Aldo raised his mug in a toast.

Chapter Text

"I told Aldo about Fredi today," Vincent said.

"You did?" Thomas twisted the rosary beads in his hand, and looked at Vincent. "Why?"

"It came up, somehow," Vincent looked up at the ceiling, not turning his head. "Did I tell you, I sometimes wonder if he could be alive?"

Thomas frowned. "If he were alive, he'd surely get in touch, wouldn't he?"

"I mean..." Vincent still didn't turn. "If he is alive, and staying away of his own free will... Something fundamental would have to change for him to do that. And yet..."

"Vincent?" Thomas inched closer.

"I'd rather he were alive."

Thomas pushed himself up on his elbow, and looked down into Vincent's face. Vincent finally turned his eyes to meet Thomas.

"Don't hide from me, Thomas," he said. "I'll put cream on your back as often as you need. Just please..." He stretched out a hand and laid it on Thomas' arm. "Don't."

Thomas shifted down, lying next to Vincent, shoulders touching. He brought his hand up to his chest, rosary tangling through his fingers.

"Did he love you?" Thomas asked.

Vincent snorted. "I didn't know I loved him," he said. "We were young. What did we know?" He paused, then continued. "We were best friends. Did I have a crush on him? Yes. But was it love?" He turned, pressing his face against Thomas' shoulder. "I just know... I can't stop waiting for him to walk in the door. And thinking, all the time, what would he do?"

"I do that too." Thomas said.

"What?"

"Think what would Vincent do?"

"Oh."

Thomas reached for the hand Vincent had folded between their bodies, entwining Vincent's fingers among his rosary beads. "Did you do that?" he asked. "When you accepted your election?"

"Yes," Vincent said, snuggling in closer. "And I thought he would accept. And... you would be there."

Thomas rubbed Vincent's finger as if it were a rosary bead. "Yes," he said. "I am."

Chapter Text

Pierre! Great to see you! Thank you so much for coming!

Your Holiness --

No, no. Just Vincent. Please?

Yes, Vincent. So, this is the Palace! You really live here? I would have thought you would stay in Santa Marta, like --

Oh, believe me, that was my first thought. But, three things. One, the back staircase you just came through.

Ah, yes.

And see? There's a kitchenette. I can cook!

Are those... scones?

Yes. Thomas' family recipe.

Thomas? Is that...

Dean Lawrence. You'll meet him later. He'll join us for tea. And that's the third thing. I can have people over. Have meetings. Have discussions over lunch or dinner.

Yes. I see. Oh, is that clotted cream?

Yes! I ordered it from Amazon!

Surely there are some convents or monasteries somewhere that...

Yes, I'm sure. This jam is from a monastery in Northern Italy. I'm sure once Ray and Agnes are convinced my scones are actually edible, they will --

They didn't believe in you?

I'm not sure what they were more skeptical of, my baking ability or it was Thomas' recipe! But here, let's try this, shall we? Here we go, moment of truth!

...

...

I think some monastery somewhere is about to get a big order for clotted cream.

Mmmm, them of little faith. Come, help me set the table, Thomas should be here any minute.

Aldo: Oh, this is so good! Wait a minute. There's no more cream?

Vincent: I just ordered one jar!

Agnes: We'll get more.

Giulio: We should call the Franciscans at your castle, Thomas. See if they make any.

Pierre: His castle?

Giulio: Yes. Thomas here is actually an aristocrat. A Baron, I believe?

Thomas: It's from my mother's side. Most British titles pass only through the paternal line, but this one is allowed to pass thorough female heirs when there are no male heirs. So my mother became Baroness when her father died, and now that she's gone...

Pierre: And there's a castle?

Thomas: Not a very big one. More like an extended manor house. I've rented it out to the Franciscans. They are using it as a monastery, and a guesthouse.

Aldo: So, clotted cream?

Thomas: I'm sure they make some for themselves and their guests -- my grandmother certainly used to. But whether they make any to sell or give out? I have no idea.

Vincent: You haven't been to visit?

Thomas: No. I went there to sort out my grandmother's personal effects when she passed. That's when I turned over the place to the Franciscans. My parents were a bit reluctant, but it was what my grandmother had wanted, and it wasn't like they or anyone else in the family was actually going to use the place, so...

Vincent: And you haven't been back since?

Thomas: No. Gareth sometimes drops by, and lets me know how they are doing.

Pierre: Gareth?

Aldo: His brother. They are twins.

Pierre: Twins?

Aldo: Yes. Identical. It's uncanny, actually.

Vincent: So you don't know if they bake scones using this recipe?

Thomas: No idea. But these taste exactly how my grandmother made them. You are so good at this, Vincent.

Vincent: Thank you. I'm glad they turned out well.

Ray: They are good enough to sell.

Giulio: Noooo! Pope's hand baked scones? Imagine the mad rush!

Agnes: We could raffle it off?

Aldo: Whoever wins that raffle is going to need to go into witness protection.

Pierre: Will they even dare to eat it? I can just see it being kept on an altar...

Aldo: Candle burning in front of it...

Vincent: [laughing] Stop! That is too much!

Thomas: No, it isn't a good idea to sell these. It'll have to be our little secret.

Vincent: You really should go back for a visit. It seems like a very nice place.

Thomas: It is.

Aldo: Perhaps Vincent could go as well?

Giulio: How? A papal trip to the UK is...

Aldo: Not an official trip. We could sneak him over there. Say he's taking a week off at an undisclosed location...

Ray: Or just say he's going to Gandolfo, then sneak out.

Giulio: Sneaking out of Gandolfo is easy, but how are we getting him to the UK?

Ray: Private jet. Fly from one local airport to another. Fast and secure.

Vincent: It doesn't feel right to take a jet just so I can have a vacation.

Aldo: Vincent...

Vincent: I know. I should take time for myself. But there are plenty of places I could do that, including just staying at Gandolfo.

Thomas: It's okay. Vincent. You wanted to show Pierre the gardens, right?

Vincent: Right. Will you come, too?

Thomas: Of course.

Vincent: I'm sorry Sister, but if you could?

Agnes: Don't worry, I will clean up here. Father Kabongo, let me pack up a few of these scones to take with you.

Pierre: Thank you, Sister. It was a pleasure meeting you, Your Eminences, Monsignor.

Aldo: The pleasure was ours, Father.

[They all shake hands, and Pierre leaves with Vincent and Thomas.]

Ray: Should I not have...

Aldo: No. Your idea was perfectly fine. It's just Vincent being Vincent.

Giulio: And if Vincent doesn't go, Thomas won't either.

Agnes: It was worth a try.

Aldo: Oh, well.

Chapter Text

"So," Vincent said to Pierre, as they sat down onto the bench in the gazebo. "You remember that girl who told us about the priest who..."

"Yes," said Pierre. "We couldn't get the Bishop to take it seriously."

"Well," said Vincent. "I'm the Pope now, and I do take it seriously."

"Oh," Pierre glanced at Thomas, who had sat down on a bench on the other side of Vincent. "Does that mean..."

"You are aware," said Thomas, "of the investigation we are conducting in Nigeria? We are looking to conduct similar investigations in other countries as well."

Pierre blinked. He looked toward Vincent, then back at Thomas, and at Vincent again. "Really?" He said. "You will do this?"

"Yes, Pierre." Vincent reached out and clasped Pierre's hand. "I will do this. We will." He nodded toward Thomas. "And I'm asking you to help. To head up the investigation in the Congo."

Pierre bowed over Vincent's hand, raised it to kiss his ring. Tears were streaming down his face. "That girl..." he choked out. "She never came back. After we couldn't..."

"I know," said Vincent. "Not another one, if we can help it."

Thomas and Vincent stood and watched as Pierre walked away through the gardens with the security guard escort.

"I hope we can find people like him for other countries," said Thomas.

"Well," said Vincent. "People like that are everywhere. We just have to find them."

"Yes," Thomas chuffed. "What I said."

They turned and started walking back to the Apostolic Palace.

"Your castle," said Vincent. "Did you want to go?"

"Will be nice," said Thomas. "But you are right. It's not worth using the private jet."

"Why haven't you gone back?"

"Because," Thomas said, "without Grandma, it's just a place. Sure, I have fond memories, and if it were more convenient to get there, I'd visit. But as it is... The amount of time I'd have to take off, the logistics of getting there... You aren't exactly chomping at the bit to go back to Mexico, are you?"

"No," Vincent admitted. "Yes, there are places I'd like to show you. That it would be nice to see again. But..."

"Our work is here," said Thomas. "Our life. And you know what?"

"Yes?"

"When I was eating that scone, it felt like I was having tea with Grandma again."

"Well," said Vincent. "We need more clotted cream."

"I'm sure Ray and Agnes have already ordered a ton. Agnes may even mobilize the Sisters to make it."

"Yes," Vincent smiled. "There will be clotted cream, some way or other."

Chapter Text

Vincent stood at the front of the seats in Clementine Hall, eschewing the podium, as usual. Thomas stood to his right and one step back, while on the other side, an attendant stood with a mike, ready to hand to whomever Vincent decided to call on to speak, since Vincent's voice carried through the hall without amplification, but most people's didn't.

Today's group was nuns from various orders, serving in developing countries. Each order had sent about four to six representatives. Vincent approached the closest group, consisting of an elder nun who was clearly their leader, three middle aged nuns, and a younger woman dressed in simpler habit that marked her as a novice.

"Hello, Sisters," said Vincent. "Remind me, what is the name of your order?" He tried to catch the eye of the novice, but she scrupulously kept her eyes down and wouldn't look up. The elder nun eagerly piped up with the name of the order.

"Thank you," Vincent smiled, but there was a tightness in his voice that made Thomas inch closer. "What country are you serving in, and what specifically do you do?"

"We run an orphanage and school in Ethiopia," replied the nun.

"Orphanage? How many children? Can I speak to them?"

"Speak?"

"Video? Phone call?"

The nuns looked very flustered. The novice turned down her head even more. Her hands clenched on her lap.

"Now?" the elder nun asked.

"It'd be nice if we could," said Vincent. "But the children must have schedules, right? Thomas, could we set up…" He subtly nudged Thomas toward the novice.

Thomas stepped up, extending his hand in front of the novice. "Sister?" he said. "If you could? Help us arrange this?"

The novice stared at the hand. The nun beside her mouthed "no," but Thomas kept his hand firmly in place. He didn’t dare look away from the novice to check the other nuns' expressions, but he heard gasps of surprise and mutterings of frustration.

Finally the novice took Thomas' hand, allowing herself to be pulled up from her seat and guided around the other nuns. Thomas could feel her trembling. As she stepped into the aisle, Vincent reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She finally looked up, and he held her eyes.

"Thank you, Sister," Vincent said. Then he guided her to Ray, who had come over from the side of the room. Ray began walking her out of the room, while Vincent turned, a placid smile on his lips, and moved on to the next group of nuns.

Thomas allowed himself a glance at the stunned, ashen-faced look on the elder nun before following Vincent.

Chapter Text

"These drones," said Vincent. "What do they do?"

"Do?" said Giulio. "They are drones. They fly. Form patterns..."

"The patterns. What are they meant to convey?"

"Erm..."

"The majesty of God? The beauty of his creation? The grace of his love? The unity and communion of the global Church?"

"Yes," said Thomas. "Those are the things that should be conveyed."

"And is this drone show conveying that?" Vincent asked.

Thomas looked at Giulio. Giulio sighed. "I'll go convey that to the drone team," he said.

"The Pope wants us to do what?" said Andrew.

"He wants the drone show to convey meaning," said Giulio. "The majesty of God, the beauty of creation..."

"What, does he want us to build a cathedral?"

"Not literally. But something that functions like a cathedral."

"Creation," said Sarah. "Could we start there? Let there be light..."

"Right. So it"s dark, then a single drone lights up, then the light bursts outward..."

"And what was next? Sky. Sea. Earth."

"Yes. So..."

"I'll leave you to it," Giulio said, and tiptoed out.

The drones spread out through the sky, forming an intricate mosaic of colors and shapes, rotating, gradually folding in on itself, shrinking finally to one single point of white light that gently descended to the front of St. Peter's Basilica, where Pope Innocent stood alone on the empty stage, in plain white cassock and red and gold stole. He raised his hand. "May almighty God bless you, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit." The hand moved in the sign of the cross. "Go in Peace and Love of the Lord."

Then he turned and left, and the light faded out.

"Thank you," Thomas said. "Excellent work."

Andrew turned off the drone-controlling computer. He stood and shook Thomas' hand. He looked out at the now dark and empty stage, as behind him, the Cardinal Dean moved around the room, shaking hands with each and every member of the team.

Vincent folded the stole and placed it into the drawer.

Behind him, the door opened, and Thomas walked into the sacristy. "The attendants were standing around outside," he said. "I told them to go home."

"Were they?" Vincent closed the drawer. "I might have said 'Stay here.' I just meant for them to not come in here with me. I didn't mean for them to wait."

"There's no protocol for the Pope to put away his own vestments."

"Did you feel it?"

"Yes. You were right. A single drone. The Pope alone on the stage..."

"It is strange. Sometimes I don't feel like myself."

"But it works. Because you are you."

"You could too. If you wore white, and stood on the stage..."

"First of all, I wouldn't think to stand on the stage by myself."

"Yes! The way everyone looked at me when I suggested it!"

"The Pope? Alone? It doesn't compute."

"Like that scene in Star Trek when Kirk fries the computer..."

"Yes. You scrambled our brains. Again."

"But you like it."

"Yes." Thomas held out his hand. "Shall we?"

Vincent took his hand, and allowed Thomas to lead him out.

Chapter Text

"You know," said Vincent, as another athlete flipped into an elaborately complex rotating and twirling maneuver in the air. "I've never been skiing. Or skating."

Thomas and Aldo looked at each other.

"Is it difficult?" Vincent asked. "I mean, obviously, that is difficult," he gestured at the TV. "But just staying upright, and moving?"

"Takes some practice," said Thomas. "Like riding a bicycle, maybe? Aldo, what do you think?"

"Bicycles feel more intuitive to me," said Aldo. "I never quite got the hang of gliding on ice. And skis..." He shook his head. "They are so long. I kept getting tangled up."

"You do have to learn how to move properly on them," Thomas agreed. "I think it took me about a week."

"And your family could afford to spend a week at a ski resort, right?" Aldo ribbed.

"It was a place owned by someone my father knew, from some connection or other," Thomas explained. "But yes, learning these winter sports do require access. Which is why they are still dominated by athletes from developed countries."

The TV was now showing curling. One person pushed the stone across the starting line, and a second person rubbed the ice with a broom to guide it along.

"Oh, what about that?" asked Vincent. "No skates!"

Ray looked over from the dining table, where he had been typing on his laptop. "The stones are very expensive," he said. "They cost about €550 - €850 each, and you need 16 for a set."

"Really?" asked Vincent. "Why?"

"There's only one place where Olympics quality stones can be harvested from, and the amount is limited because of environmental concerns."

"Only those particular stones will do?"

"Apparently so," Ray answered. "Something about density, and not absorbing water, not chipping or cracking, that kind of thing."

"I see," Vincent said, drifting into thought.

Thomas and Aldo held their breaths.

"So sometimes you really do need to spend the money to get something that works properly for the purpose," Vincent finally said.

"But is the purpose worth it?" Ray asked. "Can some other game be devised using cheaper materials? It won't be classic curling, but..."

"Maybe something that can be played on asphalt, instead of ice," said Vincent.

"Old tradition, new form," said Ray.

"Are we still talking about curling?" Thomas asked.

Aldo just sighed.

"No, no, no, no," Tedesco said. "Curling needs to be on ice. It's all about the friction between stone and water."

"What if we spray asphalt with water?" said Vincent. "Could that create the sliding effect?"

"We'll need to figure out a way to keep the moisture constant," Ray pointed out. "It can't be too wet or too dry."

"But did you know," said Tedesco, "that the spin on curling stones work the opposite way from regular spinning?"

"What?"

"See," Tedesco grabbed a round coaster that was on the table. "If you slide this without spinning, it goes straight." He demonstrated by sliding the coaster across the table to Thomas. Thomas slid it back. "But if you spin it as you slide..." He spun it to the left as he let go. The coaster slid to the right and ended up in front of Aldo. Aldo tried to imitate the maneuver to send it back to Tedesco, but the coaster went in a totally different direction and careened off the table. Ray bent to retrieve it.

"You need more practice," Tedesco tutted at Aldo. "But the point is, with curling stones, you spin it to the right, and it goes right."

"That's fascinating," said Vincent. "But if we had enough coasters, we could play tabletop curling, right here."

"We could just make up a game with the number of coasters we have," said Ray. "Like, we each have a coaster, right? So say the target is the middle of the table. Everyone takes turns throwing their coaster. You can knock other people's coasters out of position, if you want. The person whose coaster ends up closest to the center wins that round."

An hour later, everyone's arms and wrists were tingling from the throwing and twisting, and they were out of breath from the constant laughing. Even Tedesco had to grudgingly admit that this tabletop curling had some merit.

"It still isn't real curling," he said.

"No," Vincent agreed. "And there will always be a place for the real thing, I'm sure. But this..."

"One more round," said Aldo. "I'm NOT letting Thomas walk away with the win."

Chapter Text

Vincent; An online petition to make me a Saint? Really?

Aldo: Unfortunately, yes.

Vincent: I'm not a Saint! I'm just a man, Thomas.

Thomas: Well. You need to get used to it. People are going to be calling you a Saint, whether you want it or not.

Vincent: But I'm still just the same man I was before...

Thomas: Yes. And people would have called you a Saint then, if they had just known about you.

Vincent: But I'm not anything special. Anybody could...

Thomas: Really? Anybody?

Vincent: Well... If they wanted to...

Thomas: There. That's the message, right? Anybody can be a Saint, if they only tried?

Vincent: ...Yes. Right.

Thomas: Okay. Good. You know what to do.

Vincent: Yes.

Thomas: Okay, go.

Aldo: Very masterful Pope wrangling, Thomas.

Thomas: Oh, Aldo. Come on.

Aldo: Anybody could do it, if they only tried, right?

Thomas: ...

Anna: Last question, Holy Father. There's an online petition asking the Church to declare you a Saint.

Innocent: [laughs] Is there?

Anna: Yes. It's got over five hundred thousand signatures.

Innocent: Really! That's very kind.

Anna: What does it mean, Holy Father, that so many people think you should be a Saint?

Innocent: Well, while it's very kind of them to think so, I'm not anyone special. I just try to help people, in any way I can. And being Pope, I can help more people than I was able to before. And more people hear about it when I do. But there are other people who do as much as I do, possibly a lot more. Who also would be called Saints, if only people knew about them.

And while I do appreciate the kindness in people petitioning for me to be a Saint -- which, by the way, I should note the Church won't do while I'm still alive. Recognition of Sainthood by the Church is a declaration that the Church considers that person to be with God in eternal reward for a deserving life.

But I must say that if people find any aspect of what I do or say to be admirable, that it's simple to do what I do. It doesn't require any special talent. Just the will to do good. To help, no matter how small it may seem. Donate to a charitable cause. Volunteer at a local organization. Reach out to a neighbor. We can all be Saints, for someone in our life.

Anna: Thank you for an inspiring message, Holy Father. A fascinating conversation, once again.

Innocent: Always a pleasure, Anna.

Chapter Text

Ray hears the whispers. The innuendos. Insinuations.

He sees the looks. Covetous. Contemptuous. Skepticism tinged with envy.

Pools of festering resentment. Jagged edges of broken ambition. The Vatican can be a swamp jungle.

Then they walk into the room.

It's fresh clear breeze sweeping away staleness. The very air seems brighter when they are there. In their wake, people blink as if waking from a dream. They grope for the weights they were holding, but find they've melted away.

Nobody can explain this. Most would not admit it happened. Their minds refuse to accept the inexplicable.

Ray turns and leaves.

Chapter Text

"What did he talk about, Anton?" Thomas asked.

Anton tilted his head in question.

"During the Conclave," Thomas clarified. "How did he get 24 votes?"

"Oh," said Anton. "Well. Mostly about his various ministries. But I think..." He leaned back and looked afar, searching through memory. "It wasn't what he talked about. More how he talked."

"Ah," Thomas nodded.

"We would have eventually voted for you," Anton said, "if it had come down to you and Tedesco, or you and Tremblay."

"A good thing it didn't come to that," Thomas said. "Does he know who you are?"

"Some, I'm sure," said Anton. "But that's not important. The important thing..."

"Yes?"

"We know who we are."

Chapter Text

"Father Morimoto, thank you for coming," said Vincent. "Please, sit. Did Cardinal Bellini mention why I asked for you?"

"No, he did not," Morimoto replied.

"Well," Vincent said. "He has recommended that I name you a Cardinal."

"Ah," Morimoto nodded. "Well. I should probably mention that both Pope Benedict and the late Holy Father made that offer."

Vincent blinked. With a deep breath, he managed to keep himself from blurting out "What?" He took another breath and counted to ten, as his brain tried to compute what he had just heard.

"What," he finally said, "did you do?"

"I recommended my former students -- the current Cardinal Archbishops of Tokyo and Osaka -- for those positions."

"Why?"

"I believe I serve the Church best as Director of the Seminary."

"Right. Many of your former students, including the two Cardinals, have proven themselves excellent pastors, administrators, and theologians," Vincent acknowledged.

"And I have many more promising students currently in the Seminary."

"And you said that to my predecessors, and they agreed to leave you at the Seminary?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"I see," said Vincent. "But I'm guessing they didn't offer you the option of being a Cardinal while continuing as Seminary Director?"

"Oh," Morimoto finally seemed surprised by something. "That is... irregular."

"Well, I'm thinking of making it a little less irregular," said Vincent. "There are a number of people who, like yourself, aren't running archdioceses or serving in the Curia, but who nevertheless should have a greater say in Church governance, and in picking my successor."

"Not that it's likely I'll be involved in picking your successor," said Morimoto. "I'll likely pass eighty before we get to that."

"None of us know the number of our days," Vincent pointed out. "And even if you never participate in a Conclave, elevating you shows that the Church values your skills and service. It should motivate your students even more to follow your footsteps."

"True enough," Morimoto agreed. "Then I am at your service. Let it be done according to your will."

"Thank you," Vincent said. "Your Eminence."

Chapter Text

Thomas stood at the entrance to Casa Santa Marta, greeting the Cardinals arriving for the second consistory this year -- the "extraordinary" meeting for discussion of Church policy, after the earlier "ordinary" one for the elevation of new Cardinals.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a seminarian wrestling with a large suitcase belonging to one of the Cardinals -- its wheels had gotten stuck on a crack in the pavement. A priest walking by with a small carry-on suitcase stopped, propped his own suitcase up at the side of the road, and helped the seminarian free the large suitcase, then further helped him maneuver it to the staging area where all incoming suitcases were being gathered for later distribution to the Cardinals' rooms.

"Thank you," Thomas heard the seminarian say. "Now, if you'll put that suitcase over here, we can go get the next batch."

Thomas rubbed his head, and went to rescue the situation.

"Eminence Morimoto!" he called to the priest. "Welcome to the Vatican. I trust you had no problems on your trip?"

"Thank you, I had the most pleasant flight," Morimoto responded. He turned to the gawping seminarian and gently patted his shoulder. "Good luck with the rest of the luggage. Don't hurt your back, ok?" He turned back to Thomas. "I'll just check in and put my suitcase in my room. I believe the Holy Father is expecting me?"

"He asks you to come up to the Apartments whenever you are ready, Your Eminence."

"Very well. I'll be right back down." Morimoto retrieved his suitcase and rolled it into the lobby of the Casa. Thomas turned to the seminarian, who was still staring at Morimoto's back in disbelief.

"But he's just wearing plain black!" the seminarian blurted out.

Thomas raised his eyebrow at the seminarian. Then he turned to greet Tedesco, who had just swaggered in with his ferraiolo billowing behind him. He watched as Tedesco slid up beside Morimoto at the reception desk, heard them agreeing to walk over to the Apostolic Palace together.

The seminarian had slunk away to fetch more luggage. Inside, the dramatic red cape and unassuming black suit walked side by side toward the elevator.

Thomas sighed, and checked off their names on his clipboard.

Chapter Text

"So, the idea is to have Cardinals who don't know each other to sit together at dinner," said Vincent.

"But we have to make sure they have languages in common," said Ray. "We don't want ten people sitting around a table not being able to communicate."

"I would think it'd be hard to divide up Cardinals into groups of ten and not have some people speaking English, Spanish, or Italian in each group," Aldo pointed out.

"More like we don't want to end up with eight or nine Spanish speakers at a table with one or two people who only speak English," said Thomas.

"It would be so simple if we all spoke the same language, like oh, Latin," said Tedesco.

"That is unfair for people whose native language isn't an European one," said Morimoto. "It's so much easier to learn Latin if you already know an European language."

"Don't you still have to learn at least one European language, anyway?" Tedesco said.

"Yes, most of us learn at least some English," Morimoto agreed. "But you can find people to practice English with anywhere. Who would we practice speaking Latin with, other than each other?"

"I think the Latin ship has sailed, Goffredo," said Vincent. "I can't speak Latin, beyond what is used in liturgy. How would you say, 'Please give me your phone number' in Latin?"

Aldo opened his mouth to answer, but Vincent stopped him with a raised hand. "Don't start," he said. "I do not want a treatise on ten different ways we could render 'phone' in Latin."

"My main issue is," said Ray, "how to figure out which Cardinals know and don't know each other. Is it faster to have people list Cardinals they know, or don't know?"

"That would depend," said Morimoto. "For people such as ourselves, we know more Cardinals than we don't know. So it is faster to list people we don't know. But for others, it's the reverse."

"How many Cardinals do you know?" asked Tedesco, curiously.

"I know people who I met at the Gregorian," Morimoto nodded at Thomas and Aldo. "And I've met a lot of people at theological conferences over the years. And I've tried to get to know the Asian Cardinals whenever they were elevated."

"Is that something we should encourage?" said Vincent. "For Cardinals from the same geographical region to form closer associations?"

"That could create voting blocs," Tedesco said.

"Would that be a bad thing?" Vincent asked.

Thomas sighed. "The problem with blocs," he said, "is that they can get insular. I don't think we Europeans can throw rocks at that one. The various European blocs may be the worst."

Morimoto didn't comment.

"So what if we just make people sit with people from different geographical regions this time," said Vincent. "We can figure out something more granular for next time."

"Yes, that will be doable, thank you," said Ray.

"Next time?" asked Tedesco.

"I'm thinking we should hold consistories twice a year! And can we stop calling them 'extraordinary consistories'? I want them to be a regular thing!"

"Urgh," Thomas buried his face in his hands. Aldo just twitched in place.

"Just call them 'semiannual consistories'," said Morimoto. "And the ones where new Cardinals are elevated can be called 'elevation consistories', or some such. We can retire the 'ordinary/extraordinary' designation."

"That sounds very reasonable," Vincent smiled.

"Have you met the Cardinals?" Thomas grumbled.

"Or the Curia," Aldo added mournfully.

"Put it to a vote of the College," said Morimoto. "The Asian bloc will vote for the Holy Father's suggestion." He looked at Tedesco.

"What, you want my help?" Tedesco huffed.

Vincent batted his eyes at Tedesco.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do." Tedesco gave in.

Aldo started muttering under his breath, mentally counting votes. "I need to go talk to people." He got up and left.

Thomas also heaved himself to his feet. "I'll go find out what the Africans think," he said. "Ray?"

Ray folded up the seating charts he had been working on and followed Thomas out the door.

Vincent smiled at Tedesco and Morimoto. "Tea?" he asked.

Chapter Text

"There is something about the form," said Vincent. "The priest stands with the congregation. Even though his back is to the people, he is part of the people. Leading the worship as one with them."

"Yes, exactly!" said Tedesco. "The Church stands unified before God. This modern way of the priest facing the people -- what is that? The important relationship is not between the priest and the people. It's between God and his Church."

"Mmmm. Each has strengths and drawbacks. Which is why I'm inclined to allow both. But, my question, Goffredo, is -- does it have to be Latin?"

"Huh?"

"What if we kept the form of the priest standing with the congregation, but used the vernacular?"

"Theologically, there's nothing against that," said Morimoto. "Whether that will appeal to those who are attracted to the traditional form is another story."

"Perhaps we could try it?" said Vincent. "See how it feels."

"You want me to do the Latin Mass in Italian?!" Tedesco bristled.

"Well, I could do it, but --"

"Your doing that will signal that you have approved that form," Morimoto said. "As of now, you are just trying to explore it."

"Yes, exactly."

Morimoto nodded. "There is a church in Tokyo that uses the Latin Mass," he said. "I could speak to them, see if they are willing to perform the traditional form in Japanese."

"Thank you, George," Vincent beamed.

"If you get them to do it, give me a call," said Tedesco. "I'd like to come see how it goes."

"Certainly," said Morimoto. He lifted his mug and took a sip of the tea. Vincent and Tedesco did the same.

Chapter Text

A large glass bowl stood on the table, full with layers of yellow sponge cake, red strawberries, and two shades of white cream.

"Mmmmm," Morimoto picked up the serving spoon, and a small bowl. "Would you like some, Holy Father?"

"Vincent. And yes, I'll have some."

Morimoto expertly scooped out the trifle, getting a perfect mix of the various ingredients into the bowl he handed to Vincent. He then turned to Aldo, who nodded. Morimoto turned back to scoop out another bowl.

Vincent eyed the Cardinals drifting toward the dessert table. He sighed. He needed to move Morimoto or he might stay serving the trifle to all of them.

"May I?" said Thomas, holding out his hand for the serving spoon. Morimoto finished filling a third bowl, and handed over the serving spoon to Thomas. Vincent began walking away from the table, and Aldo and Morimoto followed, each with their bowls of trifle in hand. Thomas caught up with his lightly filled bowl, and Vincent supposed Goffredo would join them once he stopped enthusiastically filling his bowl.

He slid into his seat at their table, and smiled up at the Sister pouring out the coffee.

Chapter Text

The Cardinal Archbishop of Tokyo approached their table, bowing while still a few feet away.

"Ah, Honda-kun," Morimoto nodded. "Have you had a chance to speak with the Holy Father?" he asked, in Italian.

Vincent rose and extended his hand to the Archbishop to shake. Honda cradled Vincent's hand with both hands, and bowed low, his forehead almost touching the hands.

"Please, have a seat," Vincent said, and Honda carefully lowered himself into the seat beside Morimoto. On Vincent's other side, Tedesco scooped the last of his trifle into his mouth, then leaned across the table to shake hands with Honda.

"How were things at your table?" Morimoto asked.

"I'm afraid my English isn't quite..." Honda trailed off and shrugged. "And the African Cardinals' accents are a bit hard to follow."

"Your Italian is excellent," Tedesco commented.

"I studied some years in Rome. And I had a good teacher." Honda looked toward Morimoto.

"Do you understand Spanish?" Vincent asked. "Is it okay if I speak it?"

"I understand, Holy Father," Honda said. "And if I don't, I can always ask for clarification." He nodded toward Tedesco and Morimoto. "By the way, the two Italians at my table didn't realize I speak Italian."

"Oh?"

Honda turned to Morimoto and said something in Japanese. Morimoto laughed, and responded in Italian. "Tell that to the Holy Father. He won't mind."

Vincent leaned forward. This was going to be interesting.

"Okay," Vincent said. "I don't care what they think of my not wearing the miter, but..." he squinted at the table, where the two Italians were sitting talking to each other at one end, while the African, Asian, and Latin American Cardinals were engaged in a robust discussion at the other end. "Did they even talk to anyone else?"

Honda shrugged and shook his head.

"Right," Vincent stood. "Excuse me. You can stay here, and plan Goffredo's visit to Japan."

"Visit?" Honda looked toward Tedesco. Morimoto said a quick "Excuse us," to Tedesco, and started speaking to Honda in Japanese, presumably to explain the idea to try the "Latin" Mass in Japanese. Vincent left them to it and started across the room.

Heads turned as people noticed the Pope walking through the tables. He briefly wondered how long it would take to navigate the room while fielding all the attention. But Thomas, who had been talking to a Canadian Cardinal at a nearby table, slipped in beside him. They walked past the tables with minimal hand shakes and waves while holding a deep conversation on the various complaints over the menu, and arrived at the table with the two unsociable Italians, where Vincent and Thomas slipped into the empty seats between the Italians and the other Cardinals.

It turned out the non-Italians had been discussing how best to set agendas for the twice-a-year consistories Vincent had proposed. Should there be a central planning committee? If so, how should the members be selected? Should any Cardinal be allowed to send in agenda suggestions, or should they be first filtered through regional levels? Perhaps they could look to the rules of order of various parliaments and other government councils?

Vincent waited until a full range of suggestions had been voiced, then turned to the two Italians. "Well, Your Eminences?" he said. "What do you think?"

Chapter Text

My Brother Cardinals,

I thank you for your care and diligence in formulating these Rules and Procedures for the conduct of these Semiannual Consistories going forward. The majority of the College of Cardinals hereby present having voted to adopt these Rules and Procedures, I now affirm and declare them to be in immediate effect as of now.

Pursuant to these Rules and Procedures, I put forth before you a proposal concerning the establishment of Lay Cardinals. As per the Rules, the Dean will appoint a committee to study the proposal, and to submit a written report and recommendation no later than three months prior to the next Consistory. I ask each of you to give that report due consideration, and to come prepared to vote on it at our next Consistory.

Any Cardinal wishing to propose matters for consideration and discussion at the next Consistory shall do so in the manner prescribed by these Rules.

There being no further business, I declare this Consistory adjourned.

May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go in Peace and Love of the Lord.

Chapter Text

Usually, when the Pope needed to hand off the ferula, he gave it to an attendant -- a young priest, or perhaps a seminarian, assisting the Pope during liturgy. But Vincent insisted that Thomas accompany him, so he could take the ferula. And he did not just pass over the staff without looking, like other Popes did, or Bishops did with their crosiers. He turned fully to Thomas, and looked him in the eye as he solemnly handed it over. And Thomas accepted it just as gravely, the silent communication clear to all.

Hold my authority.

I will. I do.

"You are just passing a stick!" Aldo said. "How do you manage to imbue it with so much significance?"

"I was just passing the stick," Vincent said.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Aldo exclaimed. "And Thomas. What were you thinking?"

"Nothing," said Thomas. "He turned to pass me the ferula, and I just... reacted."

"Well, why were you there in the first place?"

"I asked," said Vincent. "I just felt more comfortable with Thomas there." He shrugged.

"Is there any chance," Aldo asked, "that you could just pass the staff... normally?"

"Too late," Thomas said. "If he does it differently the next time, that'll get attention."

"But what are you going to do," Aldo asked, "when Thomas isn't there?"

"You could do it," said Thomas. "Or another Cardinal. When he's on Papal trips, he could give it to the local Bishop or Archbishop."

"That would work," said Vincent. "Though... Maybe you could get me a young boy. One who's just big enough to hold the ferula. Or better yet, get me a girl."

"A girl?" Aldo squeaked. He desperately looked to Thomas for help. Thomas just gave him a sardonic eyebrow.

Vincent turned, and bent to hand the ferula to the girl a full foot shorter than the staff. Her eyes shone bright as she carefully grasped it.

Hold the future, Vincent's eyes said.

Oh yes, I will, the girl's smile said.

Chapter Text

You lack the courage required to be Pope.

And was Vincent brave, or just reckless and naïve?

No, forget Vincent. It was Thomas. Thomas.

How had he not seen, in all the years he had known him? Or had Vincent awakened a part of Thomas hidden and dormant under the surface?

Thomas, the quiet one. Solid. Dependable. Competent. Never flashy, never drawing attention. Never controversial.

Even now, Vincent drew all attention. The center of all controversy, whirlwind throwing everything into the air.

With solid dependable Thomas behind him every step of the way.

The Church twirled, and landed.

Courage.

Chapter Text

"Everyone loves the Pope, you know," Vincent said.

Thomas stopped writing and looked up at Vincent.

"Even Ray and Aldo," Vincent continued. "They know me now, but they wouldn't have, if I were not the Pope. Of course, we could have gotten to known each other under different circumstances... But in this life, they know me because I'm Pope."

"Okay."

"Why are you different?"

"Am I?"

"Yes."

Thomas thought about it. "Little things, I suppose. The way you were sleeping on that chair. How delighted you were by the turtles in the pond. And when you included the Sisters when you said grace. But..."

"Yes?"

"When everyone was yelling at me about Tremblay, you came and sat with me."

"Oh."

"And before that..." Thomas put down his pen, and absently massaged his fingers. "You kept insisting on voting for me. You said for you, I was the one worthy to be Pope. God knows I didn't think myself worthy. But for you... I wanted to be."

"You are the Pope," Vincent insisted. "In so many ways."

"Yes." Thomas tapped the paper he was writing. "This exhortation isn't going to write itself."

"I'm not worthy to be Pope, either," Vincent said.

"But you do your best."

"Yes."

"I'd forgotten what that was like," Thomas admitted. "To do my best. To follow my conscience, no matter what the consequences. You reminded me of that."

"Are you writing that into the exhortation?"

"What do you think?"

Vincent smiled, and looked down. Thomas picked up his pen, and started writing again.

Chapter Text

Thomas turned the hot water on full, then added just a touch of cold water. Enough to make the heat just shy of painful. But enough that he could feel...

Vincent reached in a hand, testing the water as it sluiced through his fingers. He turned the cold water up a notch, then stepped in, his bare skin brushing against Thomas.

The water was still hot, but Vincent's touch scorched as he turned to embrace Thomas under the cascading water.

"Is this chaste?" Thomas whispered into Vincent's neck.

"How does it feel?" Vincent asked.

And Thomas felt.

Chapter Text

Thomas stood before the late Holy Father's room. Someone had pulled the two ends of the ribbon together and secured them with a pin, so at first glance, it looked like the door was still sealed. But of course the wax seal was broken. There was no putting it back together.

"You didn't have to break the seal, you know," Vincent said from behind him. Thomas turned. Vincent walked up to stand beside him in front of the door. He ran a finger along the edge of the ribbon where it was attached to the junction of the door and the wall. He pulled out a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, flipped open a blade, did something to the ribbon with the flat edge -- and the thing just fell off.

"And when you are done, you tape it back on," Vincent said.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Thomas said.

"Of course," Vincent chuckled. "Next time."

Someone coughed behind them. They turned to see Ray standing there.

"I was wondering," Ray said, "what should be done about that. Normally, the ceremonial breaking of the seal would be videoed and photographed, distributed to media and posted online..."

"Well," Vincent turned back to the ribbon, now dangling by just one end. He grabbed the still attached part and pulled it off, then bundled the whole thing, broken seal and all, into Ray's hands. "Just tell everyone I was eager to find some document in the Holy Father's room. Private correspondence, you see."

Ray looked down at the bundled ribbon, then up at Thomas. Thomas shrugged. Ray bowed, and went off down the hallway with the ribbon. Vincent stood side by side with Thomas as they watched him go.

"Come," Vincent said. "The Sisters will be bringing breakfast."

Chapter Text

"Your Eminence?"

Thomas looked up to see Sister Judith standing by the door. "Yes?" he asked.

"It's dinner time," she said. "But His Holiness..."

"Ah," Thomas said. "Where is he?"

Vincent sat on the bench by the turtle pond. He turned and looked up as Thomas approached.

The faint white of Vincent's robe stood light against the gathering shadows of the dusk, unlike the dark robe he had worn when... (My dear Vincent. May I call you Vincent?)

"The turtles," Vincent said. "They don't move as much."

"It's been getting colder," Thomas said.

"Do they hibernate?"

"Not exactly." Thomas walked to the bench. "They just... don't move as much."

"It's not too cold for them here, is it?" Vincent shifted to make space for Thomas on the bench.

"They seem to be doing all right," Thomas said, as he sat down. "They start moving again when it gets warmer."

"I almost didn't come, you know," Vincent said.

Thomas looked at an unmoving turtle. "Then I wouldn't have known you," he said.

Vincent also stared at the same turtle. "That... is a horrible thought," he said.

The turtle stood, not moving. Yet it wasn't frozen. It just didn't move.

"We should go," Thomas said. "Sr. Judith says dinner is ready."

"Yes," Vincent stood, and held out his hand to Thomas. Thomas took it, and let himself be pulled to his feet.

The turtle may have watched them leave. But the two men did not look back.

Chapter Text

Thomas woke to a squeak.

Looking around blearily, he found Vincent by the bed, trying to twist the cap off a bottle of juice.

"Wha..." Thomas said.

"It won't open!' Vincent pouted.

Thomas stretched out his hand for the bottle. Vincent handed it over, and Thomas tried twisting the cap. It really was stuck tight. It took a few tries, with the sheet wrapped around the cap for more leverage, before it finally came free.

He handed the open bottle to Vincent, who gulped down big swigs of juice straight from the bottle. With a satisfied sigh, he put the cap back on, and padded out of the bedroom -- to the kitchenette, Thomas assumed, to put the bottle back in the fridge. Sure enough, Vincent quickly returned without the bottle, and climbed back into bed next to Thomas.

"You'd think," Vincent said, "they could make bottles with caps that don't stick."

"Mmmm," Thomas said, closing his eyes, determined to go back to sleep.

"Can we start a Papal Commission on user friendly food containers? This is a human rights issue. People shouldn't have to fight a lid to eat!"

"Sleep," Thomas said. "Tell Aldo in the morning."

"Mmmm," Vincent said.

This is how it happened.

Vincent stood, uncooperative bottle of juice in hand, and looked at Thomas. He seemed deeply asleep, with no chance of waking any time soon.

He didn't need the juice. He could always just drink water, or make tea. But he really felt like juice right now.

He could walk out the apartment and down the hall to the Swiss Guard standing watch. The guard would certainly not mind accommodating the Holy Father on this simple task.

But perhaps just one more try? Vincent raised the bottle and gave the cap as hard a twist as he could manage...

And squeaked.

Chapter Text

Pope Innocent stepped out of the church and walked down the steps to the sidewalk, where his car was waiting. He paused and waved to the crowd positioned behind the barricade across the street. Then he frowned and looked around. He made a decisive turn and began striding down the street, leaving his guards and attending clergy to scramble after him. He briefly walked out of the camera frame, before the cameraman turned and refocused the camera, to show that the Pope was now bent over a cardboard box in an alley beside the church, slicing though the tape sealing the box with --

"Is that a Swiss Army knife?" Giulio asked.

The camera zoomed in to the box, showing a small kitten poking its head out of the now open box. More heads followed. Then the view of the box was obscured as people swarm in. Pope Innocent stepped back to let others take care of the kittens, and the camera clearly showed him closing the knife and slipping it back into a pocket in his cassock.

"The shelter reports all kittens are in good health," said Ray. "And they are getting swamped with inquiries from people interested in adopting the 'Pope's kittens'."

"And we are getting swamped with inquiries from reporters wanting to know why the Pope is carrying a folding knife, and what type is it?" Giulio said.

"It's just a standard Swiss Army knife," said Vincent. "Someone gave it to me when I was in the seminary."

"And you just have it with you all the time?"

"Yes," Vincent said, the unsaid so what? hanging in the air.

Giulio looked at Thomas.

Thomas shrugged. "It's good to be prepared," he said.

"Oh please. Not the Boy Scout motto," Aldo muttered.

"Focus on the kittens," Ray said. "Remind people there are many animals waiting for a good home, not just the ones His Holiness found today."

"Right," Giulio said, getting up. "I'll go get the news staff to write up something." He walked off.

"Wait," Aldo said. "How did you bring that knife with you from Kabul? You just had your briefcase."

"I talked them into letting me check in the knife," said Vincent. "A kind attendant found an empty suitcase I could put it in so it could be handled as regular luggage."

"They just gave you a suitcase."

"It had been sitting in lost and found for months, apparently."

"And I'm lucky if I can get them to overlook the weight being over by an ounce," Aldo grumbled. "You got them to give you a suitcase, put just one knife in it, and load it onto the plane?"

"Aldo," Thomas said.

Aldo stopped, surprised by the firmness in Thomas' tone.

"It's ok, Thomas," Vincent said. He turned back to Aldo. "I told them it was given to me by a dear friend. Who is no longer with us."

"Oh," Aldo stared at Vincent, unsure what to say.

"Fredi would have appreciated the knife being used to rescue the kittens today," Vincent said. "Actually, the first time I used the knife, it was to cut a dog off a leash that had gotten tangled up in a bush."

"Was that one of the animals you brought back to the seminary?" Thomas asked.

"No. That one, we managed to find the owner," Vincent smiled. "But we were way late getting back, because it took so long. So the gates were locked. And Fredi decided to climb the wall..."

"Did he break a leg?" Ray asked.

"No. He broke the wall."