Chapter Text
September 2017
Angelo's last fare of the evening comes in the form of two men on the corner of Via Ostia and Via Leone IV. They flag him down under the lightening horizon and flail into the backseat, giggling like they've gotten away with something.
Angelo has been a cab driver for forty-five years. He's seen all walks of life, met people from almost every country, despite never leaving Italy. That said, he's quick to make assumptions about his passengers. It's a game he plays with himself—if they're local or foreign, hardworking or lazy, where they're from. He can even hear the difference between Catonese and Mandarin.
He makes a lot of assumptions about the two men fumbling for their seat belts in his rear view mirror.
They have to be drunk. No one else is this giddy at such an unsettled hour. And they're definitely tourists. The older man—long-limbed and pale-skinned—wears a faded New York Mets baseball cap with light pants and a linen button-down to combat the late summer heat. The younger one is even more ludicrously dressed in blue and white striped cotton shorts, red Converse, and a white T-shirt printed with an image of the Colosseum. It's captioned with the phrase: Thinking about the Roman Empire. He has brown skin and glossy black hair, but his face is hidden by a particularly hideous, yellow bucket hat and a pair of cheap sunglasses with hot pink frames.
Definitely tourists. Probably drunk. And probably together—Angelo watches the older one tenderly take the seat belt from the younger's hands and fasten it for him.
But then, he speaks.
“To the Forum, please,” he says to Angelo in perfect Italian. “The Plaza Venezia side.”
Angelo drives, calculating. Perhaps he picked up an Italian after all.
The younger man bursts into a fresh round of laughter. “That was invigorating!” he states in English through his mirth.
“Invigorating? We were nearly caught,” retorts the older, also in English, his accent low, British. He's smirking, despite his words.
Angelo, frowning, keeps his eyes on the road. He's entirely stumped. These men could be from anywhere. And the more time that passes, the more he's convinced that they're not drunk, either. Which raises the question: What were two stone-cold sober men of dubious national origin doing outside the Vatican at six in the morning on a Tuesday?
Angelo has no answer, and so he listens, occasionally checking the rear-view mirror.
“Thank you, Thomas, truly,” says the younger man. “I know this goes against your better judgment.”
The older man—Thomas, Angelo assumes—regards his companion fondly.
“It seemed cruel,” he says, “for you to have not seen Rome properly. And so you shall.”
“I'm so excited,” says the younger man. He pulls a worn black leather satchel from the foot well. “I brought plenty of water, and some books in case we have time to read.”
Thomas snorts. “Very ambitious, Vincent.”
Vincent shrugs. “How long do you think we have before my absence is noticed?”
“With you faking sick? At least until nine, I hope,” says Thomas.
“I stuffed some pillows beneath the blankets to make it look like I was still there.”
Thomas barks a surprised laugh. “You're serious?”
“I thought it couldn't hurt.”
“Goodness gracious, Aldo is going to lay an egg.”
Vincent chuckles. “He’s going to go full teapot. We'll buy him a nice vintage while we're out for his trouble.”
“Sister Agnes, too,” says Thomas. “Though she doesn't drink…”
“A different souvenir, then.”
“We will have to think hard. She desires so little.”
Angelo watches his late mother's rosary, dangling from the rear-view mirror, sway as he turns right and trundles across the bridge spanning the Tiber. Just who are these men? Why must one go to such extreme measures to escape?
He's not harboring fugitives, is he?
He gets his answer when he pulls up in front of the Forum several minutes later. Thomas reaches for his wallet, but Vincent beats him to it.
“I've got it, I've got it,” he insists, forking a wad of Euro bills to Angelo with a long-fingered hand. “Grazie, sir.”
Angelo fumbles to return the change—his knuckles are arthritic and not as nimble as they used to be. He accidentally drops a two Euro coin in the gap between the seat and center console. Immediately, his passenger dips to retrieve it. His hat knocks against the seat in the process, nearly pulling it from his head. His garish pink sunglasses slide down his nose. But he does recover the coin. He returns it to Angelo with a too-familiar smile—a smile regularly plastered across television screens and plates, magnets, and prayer cards in Rome's numerous tourist shops.
“Keep the change. Have a wonderful day.”
He pushes up his sunglasses and resituates his hat, but Angelo has already seen.
The Pope.
Angelo just gave the Pope a ride to the Roman Forum.
January 2017
Nine Months Earlier
Staring at his reflection in his office window, Vincent frowns. The red camauro atop his head, garishly trimmed in white sable fur, does not transform into something more sensible.
If he can't take himself seriously in this thing, the rest of the world won't, either. With dismay, he realizes he'll have to resign himself to cold ears every winter for the rest of his life.
A knock startles him. He whirls around, one hand clasped over his ridiculous hat—as if hiding it is remotely possible—but relaxes when he spots his visitor.
“Thomas!” he smiles. “How was your Christmas?”
His dean leans against the doorframe. He wears street clothes—dark slacks and a thick, creamy cotton sweater beneath a nondescript black coat. The collar is turned up against the cold. Vincent would hug him, were it proper. He hasn’t seen Thomas in weeks. It’s a relief to see him now.
Thomas doesn’t quite smile in return, but his eyes gleam. “A longer holiday than usual, thanks to you. It's good to be back.”
The extended absence was at Vincent’s insistence. The Conclave ended in November, but their work did not. They pulled numerous late nights together, straight into Vincent's inaugural mass in early December, in which Thomas placed the Fisherman's Ring on Vincent's finger with the entire world watching.
Then, he kept going. Only after coming down with a particularly nasty cold was Vincent able to convince him to return to Britain to visit his family for the holidays—against his own desires. He has few true friends in the Vatican, and it would have been nice to spend Christmas with one. And he second-guesses everything without Thomas’ counsel.
But admittedly, Thomas does look better. There's more color in his cheeks. His face seems less hollow. Someone has been feeding him. Vincent will have to ensure that continues here—his dean eats so little.
“Did you just get in?” Vincent asks.
Thomas nods. “Did the clothes give it away? I assumed you'd be working late and thought I'd drop by.”
“Your first day back is tomorrow. There was no need.”
“Well.” Thomas gestures vaguely, seemingly lost for words. For several heavy seconds, he studies Vincent with those intense blue eyes. “I see you've found the camauro.”
Vincent forgot he had it on. He pulls it from his head, face heating. “Don’t get used to it. Sister Agnes suggested it given the weather, but…”
“Not your style?” asks Thomas when he doesn’t continue.
He nods. “It’s ridiculous.”
Thomas’ mouth curves subtly upwards. “The late Holy Father scorned it as well.”
“I look like Santo Clós,” Vincent grumbles. “If only knit hats were appropriate attire for clergy…”
“I’ll pick one up from a tourist shop on my way in tomorrow,” Thomas says, casually enough that Vincent wonders if he’s serious. He enters the room and seats himself in one of the garishly elaborate chairs before Vincent’s desk. “Perhaps we can convince our brothers that our attire needs updating.”
Vincent smiles picturing it—Thomas in his cassock in a cramped tourist shop, frowning at an array of beanies emblazoned with various landmarks of Rome. What he wouldn’t give to see that.
His smile fades.
“Everything alright?” Thomas asks.
Vincent retreats from the window and sits at his desk. “A strange thought—I will never set foot in a tourist shop again.”
“You’re not missing much,” says Thomas, “but I see your point. I am sorry.”
“I’ll live vicariously through your descriptions.” Vincent rubs his fingers along the sable of his camauro, still in his hand. “But enough about me. Tell me about your trip.”
So Thomas recounts. Vincent peppers him with questions. An hour slips away. It’s nearing midnight, but Vincent’s exhaustion fades. It is nice to converse with a friend, someone who only calls him Your Holiness in the presence of others and feels as familiar as his own reflection, despite the short time they’ve known each other.
Vincent has never grown so fond of someone so quickly. He vividly remembers the night they met, a weathered face as exhausted as his own determining, with little hesitation, that Vincent belonged here. Thomas had the air of a kicked puppy, or at least someone who accidentally became too important at work and regretted it.
Vincent can relate to that.
Not that he scorns being Pope—he won’t question God’s plan. But at night, when his attendants and advisors have left him for the day and he lies in bed alone, he cannot help but remember that he’ll never walk freely in the street ever again. He’ll never grab a casual coffee with a friend, or go out to dinner, or experience the humbling feeling of anonymity. He will age and die within the Vatican.
It’s a little terrifying.
So, perhaps that’s why he likes Thomas. He has been a consistent presence since Vincent arrived here, but it’s more than that—he’s soothing. Relatable. On nights like this, where they let the time get away from themselves, they’ll speak for hours about everything and nothing. He should feel exhausted after evenings like these, but despite the limited hours of sleep, he always wakes in the morning feeling rejuvenated.
And during the day, he looks forward to every meeting he shares with Thomas, even when the subject matter is unspeakably dry. His voice is smooth, low, elegant. Everything about him is elegant—long limbs, handsome face, unmistakable gravitas. Vincent wonders if he’s aware how well he moves in his cassock, his choir dress. Not everyone does. He’s seen more than one cardinal trip on a stray hem. He has himself. But Thomas—never. It’s like he was born for the cloth.
Simply put, Vincent has never seen a more beautiful cardinal, or known a more beautiful man.
Thomas has finished his recounting. Vincent shares a little about his own Christmas, but there’s not much to divulge. It was quiet. Before long, he’s out of things to say.
“I’m glad you’ve returned,” he admits after a too-long silence. “I knew I’d feel your absence, but I didn’t realize how profoundly. It’s comforting to have a friend like you, Thomas.”
Thomas glances away. “You’re too kind.”
“I’m serious. What shall I do when your term as dean is up?”
It’s an uncomfortable subject. Thomas asked the late Holy Father if he could resign. He asked the same of Vincent. They agreed that Thomas will stay until June, enough time for Vincent to settle into the papacy. But still, Vincent worries. Even these few weeks without Thomas were arduous. He was easily frustrated, and barely managed to hide it from his advisors. He didn’t sleep particularly well. Prayer did not come as easily.
Thomas claims to be experiencing the same problem. Vincent cannot comprehend how. Surely there is no man that more closely follows the path of the Lord. A man who serves, despite his own doubts, who revealed corruption and lies while keeping himself clean. And his accomplishments—a cardinal; the former secretary of state; multiple degrees in theology; fluent in English, Spanish, Italian, and Latin. A man capable of running a conclave with dignity and competence, despite the loss of a dear friend, a terrorist attack, and dissent from small-minded colleagues. And then, when Vincent revealed his secret to him, he accepted it and moved on.
All of that noise, and he emerged from the conclave with grace. He took his place at Vincent’s side, and has not left willingly since.
How is Vincent supposed to survive without him?
It doesn’t matter. It’s selfish to ask Thomas to stay past June. He will pray to the Lord to reveal the path ahead.
Thomas offers a self-deprecating smile. “Everybody is replaceable.”
“Not you,” Vincent insists.
“Especially me,” counters Thomas.
“We will have to agree to disagree.” Vincent pauses, then takes a breath. “For now, you are here. And while you are, I shall need you more than ever.”
“Use me however you need,” says Thomas. “I am here to help.”
Help me forever, Vincent thinks, but does not say.
“Welcome home, Thomas,” he utters instead.
He swears Thomas’ eyes warm. “Thank you, Vincent. It is nice to be back.”
September 2017
They start with coffee.
“Díos,” gasps Vincent at the first sip. “I thought I'd never have a good latte again.”
Thomas chuckles over his cappuccino. “A shame that the Vatican lacks baristas.”
“Truly.” Vincent takes a second sip and leans back in his chair. “Thank you for all the lattes you’ve brought in for me these past months, but…”
“Any café willing to put their latte in a to-go cup is compromising quality,” Thomas finishes. “I take no offense.”
“Thank you,” says Vincent.
They sit at one of the few establishments open at this early hour—a café at the base of Palatine Hill. The Roman Forum stretches upwards to Vincent’s right. Thomas is across from him. Their patio table is cluttered with a smattering of pastries and their coffees. There’s a taste to the air that promises a scorching afternoon.
Vincent can’t wait.
Best of all, no one has noticed them—save for the cab driver. But the waiter didn’t bat an eye at Vincent’s ridiculous bucket hat and glasses. Passersby don’t look twice at them. Vincent initially balked at Thomas’ wardrobe choice for him when they cooked up this plan, but now he understands it was sensible. They are tourists, doing tourist things, and they look the part.
Admittedly, Thomas is far less recognizable than the successor of Saint Peter, which gives more leeway to his attire. Vincent is envious. He’s not used to seeing his companion in white, or this dressed down. Both suit him. His linen button-down appears breezy and lightweight. The first button is undone, exposing the soft flesh of his throat and a dusting of hair at his clavicle. Vincent is certain Thomas’ comforting scent is most intense there—incense, pine sap, musk. He thinks of that time on his sofa, when he permitted himself to indulge in it. If only he had an excuse to do so again.
Thomas catches him staring. He cocks his head, questioning.
Vincent scrambles for words. “I didn’t know you liked baseball,” he says. He trains his eyes on the faded, blue cap on Thomas’ head, and tells himself he was staring at it the whole time.
“I don’t,” says Thomas, nibbling on a fraction of a crumb of a pastry. “It was a gift from Aldo when we were in seminary. He loves the Mets. That, if anything, should have been a bellwether for the outcome of last year’s conclave…”
Vincent doesn’t know much about the Mets, or American baseball in general. He picks up the plate with the pastry Thomas was picking at and shoves it closer.
“Eat,” he urges. “We have a long day ahead. You’re going to need it.”
Begrudgingly, Thomas takes a slightly larger bite. “You are a mother hen.”
“I wouldn’t have to be, if getting you to eat wasn’t like pulling teeth,” Vincent counters. “Though you’ve certainly improved since our first meeting.”
Thomas chews, and swallows—to Vincent’s satisfaction. “Thanks to you.”
“Yes, thanks to me. My dear dean, if you do not eat, you cannot do your best work for our Church.”
“No, I suppose not,” says Thomas.
“Nor,” Vincent continues, allowing a smirk to cross his face, “will you be able to keep up with someone as young and spritely as me.”
Thomas rolls his eyes. “Your back pain is worse than mine.”
“I got hit by a car bomb. What's your excuse?”
Thomas grumbles something under his breath. Then, he takes the pastry plate from Vincent and begins to eat in earnest. “You have me there.”
“That's right.” Vincent keeps his smirk. “Now, shall we review our itinerary again? Just to remind you why you need fuel?”
“Yes, yes,” Thomas mutters. He withdraws a piece of notebook paper from his breast pocket and hands it to Vincent. “Here it is.”
Vincent unfurls it. He takes a moment to admire Thomas’ script. It's as elegant as the rest of him, but not ostentatiously loopy. It reads:
05:45 - Rendezvous at meeting point
06:00 - Escape the Vatican
07:00 - Breakfast (a decent latte for Vincent)
09:00 - Roman Forum
12:00 - Lunch (pizza for Vincent)
13:30 - Colosseum
15:00 - Siesta in Parco del Colle Oppio
17:00 - Drinks (an Aperol spritz for Vincent)
Vincent's chest warms reading it, like a peony unfurling from a tight bud into a glorious flower.
“Maybe we'll get gelato, too,” suggests Thomas.
“I'd like that,” says Vincent. “And don't forget the tourist shop. And the wine for Aldo.”
Thomas swallows the last of his pastry, which nudges a nugget of satisfaction beneath Vincent's sternum. His cerulean eyes glimmer with amusement.
“I think we can pencil that in.”
February 2017
“Oh, no, what is that? Don’t tell me that you’ve bought into the American propaganda. Coffee is not meant for go-cups, Thomas.”
One moment, this hallway was empty. The next, not. Thomas isn’t sure where Aldo appeared from, but now he’s tittering at his shoulder like an over-excited bird, keeping pace with Thomas as he laments ‘the commodification of caffeination.’
“Seriously, I thought you were better than this,” he rants. “If you wanted coffee, surely we could have stepped out for a while?”
“It’s not for me,” Thomas clarifies, “it’s for the Holy Father.”
“Oh.” Aldo briefly stops walking, then jogs to catch up again. “Wait, what?”
In the weeks since Thomas has returned to the Vatican, he’s settled into a routine. He wakes before first light in his apartment in Rome, dresses, and makes his way into the office. Vincent is typically working by the time he arrives, so he pops in to catch up before settling into his own workspace down the hall. Then, it’s meetings for most of the day—most with the Holy Father, some not—and correspondence.
That’s what it is officially, anyway. But additional duties have found their way to the Dean of the College of Cardinals. He is a manager, after all. So, he manages. Vincent routinely comes by to ask him about the nuances of a particular cardinal or politician. They take frequent walks in the Vatican gardens to see the turtles. Usually, they eat either lunch or dinner together. Vincent frequently bounces ideas off of him for upcoming homilies. And on the nights they stay up late talking, their conversation usually turns to Vincent’s first encyclical, which he’s in the process of composing.
This apparent closeness has resulted in many members of the Holy See consulting with Thomas on matters that they wish to bring to the Holy Father—and that’s over Aldo, who has retained his position as Secretary of State, and Ray, who has become Vincent’s personal secretary. It seems that Thomas, somehow, is an unofficial chief of staff.
It was during a conversation with the Holy Father yesterday—over coffee in his office, with the late-afternoon sunlight cutting golden beams across the floor and furniture—that Thomas learned that Vincent loves lattes.
“An indulgence, I know.” Vincent had gestured offhandedly, as if the situation couldn’t be helped. He was seated in a sunbeam that turned his cassock blinding and his skin golden. “But the few opportunities I’ve had to try them were a delight.”
Thomas explains this to Aldo now.
“He’s the Pope, he deserves a latte,” he concludes lamely. “Unfortunately, given I cannot bring the Holy Father to a café in Rome, I have to bring the café to him. Hence, the go-cup.”
Aldo rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll excuse it. Bring your husband his coffee.”
Thomas stops, turns. “My what?”
Aldo raises an eyebrow. “Your husband, the Pope. Surely you’ve heard this joke by now?”
“I haven’t!” says Thomas, indignant. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You and the Holy Father are attached at the hip.” Aldo shrugs. “Sister Agnes thinks that you should just move into the Casa Santa Marta.”
“And the entire Curia is making this joke?”
“More or less,” Aldo says.
“Does the Holy Father know?”
“Of course.”
Thomas flushes with mortification. “Oh, dear—”
“He overheard the nuns talking about it. Said that if spouses had a relationship like yours, there would be no divorce.”
The mortification lessens, then grows, then lessens. Thomas isn’t sure how to interpret that answer.
Aldo squeezes his shoulder. “Thomas. It’s a joke. You’re not married to the Holy Father. You may recall that same sex marriages in our Church are, regrettably, not permitted. Don’t overthink this. Our Pope has found himself in a strange and unfamiliar place. In addition to advisers, he needs a dear friend. And he trusts you above all others.”
Thomas is touched. He also wants to melt into the elaborate tapestry hanging from the wall to his right.
“You really shouldn’t resign, you know,” says Aldo.
“I disagree. If people are joking that I’m married to the Holy Father, that’s one more reason to extract myself from this place.”
“He’ll be devastated when you leave.”
Thomas’ chest twinges. He imagines it—one last day with Vincent, one last walk in the gardens, one last dinner. A tough farewell, in which he says nothing to betray the depth of emotion he feels for the Holy Father, and then…what? He’ll just bumble off to a monastery and die?
That was the plan six months ago. It’s still the plan now. But it’s not sitting as easily with Thomas as it used to.
Still, Vincent has so much to do—decades ahead of him as leader of the Church. What does Thomas have? There won’t be another conclave in his lifetime, God willing. Soon, he’ll reach eighty and be too old to run it. And sure, he’s helpful to Vincent now, but once he learns the inner-workings of the Vatican? He won’t need him. Thomas will be dead weight.
So yes, it’s probably best to bumble off to a monastery and die.
Aldo pulls him from his trance. “Look, I’ve got to go—I’ve got a meeting with that unpleasant politician from the Nordics—Ashburn, or whatever he’s called. But think about it.” He pats his arm. “Bring your husband his latte.”
He turns and struts down the hall, mozzetta flowing behind him.
“Don’t call him that!” Thomas lamely protests to his retreating back.
Aldo just laughs.
September 2017
Vincent likes the Forum—it's a lot like the Vatican gardens. There are ancient relics everywhere, nooks and crannies to explore, bubbling fountains with verdant ferns that would make perfect homes for turtles. His heart twinges at the thought—he tamps down the memory of two nights ago.
It's at one of these fountains, partially secluded and halfway up the hill to the home of Augustus, that Thomas’ phone rings. The shrill sound interrupts the tranquility of the birdsong and trickling water.
“My dear Thomas,” Vincent sighs, “you would bring yourself so much peace if you changed your ringtone to something less jarring. Some Mozart, perhaps? Brahams? Tchaikovsky?”
“So you've said. Unfortunately, I miss calls with anything quieter.” Thomas gingerly lowers himself to a bench and pulls his phone from his pocket, squinting and holding the device at arm's length to read it without his glasses. “It's Aldo.”
Vincent glances at his watch—an ancient Timex gifted to him by a parishioner, an old widow. Vincent had been in his late twenties when he received it. He still thinks of her whenever he checks the time.
It’s after eleven o’clock. They got away with far more than Thomas predicted. There’s a strange satisfaction in Vincent’s belly. He feels like a schoolboy cutting class. But here comes the nun now, ready to rap them across the fingers with a ruler.
“Aldo?” answers Thomas.
“Thomas!”
Thomas has put the phone on speaker. Aldo’s voice is an octave higher than usual, his panic obvious. Privately, Vincent calls this state of being ‘teapot mode,’ in which his well-meaning secretary of state works himself into such a tizzy that he resembles a boiling tea kettle. Or, well, almost privately—Thomas knows, too, because Vincent accidentally referred to Aldo going into ‘teapot mode’ in a conversation after one exceptionally exhausting day in which the Polish prime minister fainted from heat stroke in the middle of a Vatican press conference, among other things.
Thomas had laughed so hard his eyes had watered. He so rarely does that Vincent had walked on air for the rest of that week, giddy that he had been the one to elicit such mirth from his dean…even if it was at Aldo’s expense.
Now, Aldo speaks at full teapot: “Thomas, where are you? The Holy Father is missing! You recall that he went to bed with a fever last night, so I didn’t find it strange when he didn’t wake as usual this morning, but, I, I…” He trails off, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “Sister Agnes went to check on him a few minutes ago, and he’s gone! Pillows stuffed under the sheets! He’s been kidnapped!”
“Kidnapped?” questions Thomas.
“Kidnapped!” Aldo repeats. “Why aren’t you panicking?”
“If he’d been taken against his will, I think the Swiss Guard would know,” says Thomas. “But a fever? Pillows under sheets? Did you never try to pull a fast one on your parents, Aldo? It sounds like the Holy Father needed time to himself.”
“We don’t know that for certain! And if he was sick—”
Vincent definitely wasn’t. Late last night, with the door to Vincent’s office closed, Thomas had produced a jump rope and told Vincent to get moving. He felt ridiculous skipping rope in full papal regalia, but it made him hot and sweaty enough that when Thomas escorted him to his rooms, insisting to anybody they encountered that ‘His Holiness is feeling unwell,’ every person’s face creased with worry. Sister Agnes brought him medication and sent him off to bed after feeling his forehead and determining he was ‘clammy.’
Perhaps it was disingenuous. But it has bought them time.
“Aldo, really,” Thomas reasons. Vincent sinks onto the bench beside him. “The Swiss Guard is highly capable. If something had happened to the Holy Father, they’d know. And do you really think a man who has lived in areas of conflict most his life would be taken so easily?”
It’s a good point—Vincent has survived two abduction attempts. He should probably tell Thomas about those at some point. He knows almost everything else about him, after all.
“The Swiss Guard doesn’t know yet, but we can’t rule out kidnapping—”
“You can, and it’s not kidnapping, it’s Popenapping.”
Aldo makes an exasperated noise. “Why are you not taking this seriously? You and the Holy Father are always together, you—”
He pauses. Thomas closes his eyes, clearly exasperated.
“He’s with you, isn’t he?” asks Aldo, voice staticky through the line.
“Today’s my day off,” says Thomas.
“You’re not answering my question,” says Aldo.
“Today is my day off, and I'm making the most of it,” Thomas repeats.
The line is silent. Aldo sighs.
“So what I'm hearing is that I shouldn't tell the Swiss Guard,” he says at a more normal pitch.
“No, I don't think so,” Thomas replies. “He deserves a break, don't you think? He had a stressful few days.”
“So long as he's safe,” grumbles Aldo.
“Of course.” Thomas' gaze slides to Vincent, blue eyes sparkling. “I'm sure he'll be fine. Just tell everyone he's ill.”
“Right.” Aldo sounds resigned. “Okay. Fine, very well.”
“Can I enjoy my day off now?” asks Thomas.
“In a moment, just…” Aldo pauses. “If you see the Holy Father, tell him that his turtle will be alright.”
Oh. Vincent's lips part. He nearly speaks. Thomas' hand finds his knee and squeezes before he betrays himself.
“That's a relief to hear,” says Thomas. “I know he was upset.”
Vincent was—devastatingly, disproportionally upset. For all the pain in the world, for all the suffering that he personally has borne witness to, it was an overreaction. He should be embarrassed. And yet a weight is already lifting from his shoulders. Not a large one—Thomas still plans to resign, which makes him nauseous if he thinks about it too hard—but at least the turtle will not compound on that worry.
“Have a good day, Thomas,” says Aldo. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, Aldo.” And with that, Thomas ends the call. For long seconds, he and Vincent stare at each other in silence.
“I can't believe we're getting away with this,” Vincent finally says. “I'm in your debt.”
“Never.” Thomas’ hand is still on Vincent's knee. He squeezes again. “Now, we have the whole day in Rome. Let's enjoy it.”
That’s when it truly dawns on Vincent. They are in Rome, alone. No roaring crowds, no cameras, no press—just him, Thomas, and a glorious, late summer day.
They can do whatever they want. They can eat whatever they want.
Finally, they have escaped the Vatican.
Vincent swallows. He feels bubbly, like he’s filled with champagne.
He lays his hand over Thomas’ on his knee, then beams at his dear dean.
“Let’s go get that pizza.”