Chapter Text
Lawrence wishes he could say that he acted out of heroism. That would make for a much better story here, a better one than that of a dutiful pope, the Holy Father acting out of faith and love, distracted as he always is by the eager crowd gathered behind the walkway barriers - and the cardinal dean with the treacherous heart, motivated by schedules and anxieties, addled by the punishing schedule of their current tour to the point where he can barely remember what country he’s in anymore, except that it’s hot and his cassock is glued to him with sweat.
It was selfishness that had led to him gently taking the Holy Father’s wrist, reminding him by touch that they have places to be, that there are people still waiting for his presence. Impatience too, to get out of the relentless sun. He's surely old enough now not to give into impulses like that, ones that are fuelled by frayed nerves and exhaustion rather than patience and understanding. He should be better than this.
His fingers wrap around Vincent’s wiry wrist - for Vincent he remains between the two of them, in pectore , as he has requested with a gentle smile at Lawrence finds himself as ever unable to deny.
It's the moment he remembers, the point of contact, feeling bone and tendon that has begun to take the shape of something familiar against the pads of his fingers.
And then time begins to fragment.
The crowd reacts to something, the endless, undulating movement of people interrupted by an unexpected parting and jostling. He remembers Vincent’s eyes on his, widened briefly, a flicker of something unpleasant that might be irritation. The look strikes Lawrence to his core and he goes to withdraw, chastised, guilt and shame flooding him as Vincent’s lips part to speak.
“We need to move him!”
A hand is clamped over his shoulder, too tight, the pressure too much - it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt - he wants to say it doesn’t hurt but his tongue isn’t obeying him-
It’s a moment that lasts for far too long, hanging in balance for a precarious moment before the drop. Time pulls taut in anticipation, the cartoon animals he remembers from his youth, suspended in the air as they realise there is no longer ground beneath their feet but space, the world watching on and laughing at him as he realises he has nowhere to go but down.
What Vincent wanted to say, he might never know. But he replays that split second over and over in his head nevertheless, it’s broken-record repetition giving him no further information no matter how hard he tries to grasp at the lingering details. What words would the Holy Father have had for him?
Sweat cools on his skin as it dries but this kind of wetness is warm, sticky-warm and the patch of it seeps further and further, spurting in time with his pulse-
Vincent’s body knows to duck at the sound of the gunshot. He’s had enough experience for the reaction to be written into his bones, an involuntary instinct that has him pulling his wrist from Lawrence’s grasp to cover his head.
Lawrence reacts more slowly. He still shies away from the sound, but his instinct drives him to turn, to seek out the source of the noise rather than to move.
He feels the bullet as a hard knock against his shoulder, and for a moment he thinks perhaps he’s been jostled by someone as the crowd panics and begins to disperse.
Vincent is already moving.
There’s blood on the Holy Father’s clothes, red up to his elbows, a horrible, rumpled handprint over his heart. The world tilts, and for a moment laughter bubbles up - it will never come out in the wash.
The pain doesn’t come right away. He fists his hands in the shining silk of Vincent’s cassock, pulling him along to safety. There’s been an attempt on the Holy Father’s life! They need to get him out of here before anyone gets hurt. Security officers crowd them and usher them along, towards the armoured car waiting for them around the corner.
Someone is shouting in his ear, but he doesn’t hear them.
Someone’s trying to pry his hands from their death grip on Vincent, but he won’t allow it, not here-
They’re halfway out when his steps begin to falter. His knees are weak all of a sudden, buckling under him and he doesn’t understand why, only that Vincent is reaching for him now, pulling him closer, shouting orders with a firm authority that sounds utterly alien coming from him.
Lawrence wants to reassure him, but there’s no time, and his tongue feels oddly useless in his mouth.
“We need to move him!”
Lawrence wants to tell him he’s being ridiculous, that Vincent should be the one they’re worrying about right now, since he’s the target.
Someone’s trying to pry his hands off again, and this time he’s too disoriented to resist.
"Thomas. Thomas. Let go, please - you have to let me-"
The fabric of Vincent’s cassock sticks to his hands as they come away, and Lawrence stares in numb shock at the crimson stains he leaves behind.
“It’s alright, Thomas, you’re alright. We’re on our way to the hospital now, we’ll get you help.”
The hands on him are trembling, Vincent’s jaw is set, his expression grim as they’re bundled into the back of the car.
It still doesn’t hurt. Time continues to stutter around him. Somewhere in the distance, sirens begin to wail.
When that window had blown out in the Sistine Chapel, Lawrence had known. Perhaps not an act of divine judgement reserved solely for him, but a sign nevertheless, that he had chosen poorly, his name on the ballot an affront to the Lord. He feels that sense of shame now, wounded at a tipping point where he’d been giving in to his stress and the complaints of his pitiful body. He wishes that Vincent would clamp his hand more tightly around his wound, perhaps tightly enough that he will finally be able to feel it.
Instead he feels numb to it all. The pain has not arrived yet, and the passage of time snaps against him like a rubber band, stinging him with every moment of whiplash, every drawn out breath and every blink that finds him in a new position, a new place, crammed now into the back seat of a vehicle with tinted windows and air conditioning. Vincent’s breathing is loud, ragged, his eyes focused forwards as he and the security officer in the front seat speak in hurried, low voices.
The pain hits when they turn a corner. Lawrence inhales, and then he exhales as a groan. The blood drains from his face, and for the first time Vincent looks down at him, his expression stricken.
“We are not far now, my friend. Hold on.”
Movement against his shoulder. Lawrence groans again. The pain is sharp when it arrives, and he welcomes it into his consciousness, allowing it to pierce through the numbness.
Vincent adjusts his position, reaching out to cradle his jaw. Lawrence, ever the weak one, allows his eyes to flutter closed as he relishes the contact. Vincent’s hand is warm against his skin - not the relentless heat of the sun nor the suffocating wet heat spreading through his shoulder, but something reassuring and alive.
The hand trembles, and Lawrence frowns. He wants to do something about that, but the thought of moving suddenly makes himself aware of his body again. The pain radiates through him, and all of a sudden a dozen other alarm bells go off - the pressure of his hip where it’s squashed against the car seat, his back protesting the way he’s twisted, lying in Vincent’s lap, the persistent aches in his joints, the pervasive weakness in his limbs.
The car hits a bump and he groans again, unable to help himself. It hurts.
“How far?” says Vincent quietly.
“Two minutes,” comes the response.
“Not far at all,” says Vincent, his expression kind. Lawrence knows firsthand the effect the Holy Father has on people like this, his steady smile and the softness in his eyes, the calm reassurance that everything will be alright. It would even work on him now, if he weren’t close enough to feel the tremors that have made their way up from beneath the other man’s skin.
“I’ll be fine,” says Lawrence, his voice hoarse and alien to himself, “better me than you, eh?”
The softness drains from Vincent’s expression abruptly.
“Don’t say that,” he snaps.
Lawrence doesn’t know how to respond so he shifts slightly, so that me might move against the pressure on his shoulder, sending fresh sparks of pain through him. It cleanses him, dulls the raw edge of shame that fills him at Vincent’s words. A clean kind of pain.
They do not speak again, but neither do Vincent’s lips stop moving as they make their way to the hospital. Lawrence watches his silent prayers through a haze, and some dark part of him, dredged up in the rubble of his distress, worms its way to the surface and wishes Vincent would stop wasting his breath.