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Thomas Lawrence had first been assigned to Vincent Benítez’s side as the man lay still on the operating table. He had placed an incorporeal hand on the man’s forehead as the doctors worked away, wiling the man to sleep peacefully. Thomas had kept a watchful eye on Vincent’s face, studying each line, each blemish, each scar. Even when the surgeons raised their voices in confusion and concern and scrambled to review Vincent Benítez’s medical records, Thomas would not look up from the man’s face.
He recalled how he felt when Vincent’s eyes first opened, pupils constricted under the harsh surgery lights. Beautiful deep brown under thick eyelashes. Thomas chastised himself for thinking about how pretty Vincent looked. He busied his thoughts with how he might better Vincent’s recovery. Nevertheless, Thomas could not quieten the bothersome voice in the back of his head wondering what exactly the surgeons had been so confused and concerned about during surgery. He prayed that Vincent would recover well, and that whatever had been found was benign, or at the very least treatable.
Sitting like this, on a chair beside a hospital bed, Thomas wondered if to something beyond the human eye he might look like Vincent’s friend or family on a hospital visit. Later, Thomas would begin to cherish these moments, when he could pretend the two existed on the same plane of reality. The facade only lasted so long, however, because the chief surgeon came to take his place, sitting through Thomas, telling Vincent something that made his eyes widen, his mouth part, his heart beat fast.
Thomas could intervene to protect Vincent, but it was impossible for him to bend reality and make himself known. He could soothe the ache in the man’s limbs after a long day. He could wake Vincent from his slumber should some emergency arise in the dead of night. He could cause a wooden beam to splinter after a belt was wrapped around it. He could crouch down to Vincent’s body, crumpled on the floor, hear the man’s quiet sobs, but Thomas' incorporeal hands could not wipe away his tears.
That was the first Vincent he knew. Confused, quiet, too introspective for his own good. Sleeping fitfully, or not at all. Faced with a choice that even Thomas could offer him no guidance on. On the floor next to his hospital bed, Thomas had prayed next to the man, had willed for his mind to quieten. When Vincent wept, always in the shower so no-one would hear him, Thomas had stood across from him pathetically, lamenting his inability to help. He felt pathetic, called to guard a man he was unable to console. What he needs is someone to speak to in confidence. Someone who can reassure him. Another human. What is my purpose?
But when Vincent returned to Kabul, to his flock, the clouds had begun to part. Vincent smiled more — a genuine smile, not one borne out of politeness — he laughed. The sound seemed to crack the whole world open. Vincent’s gentleness, a man among such pain, still coming to terms with his own body, was almost inconceivable to Thomas. He offered kindness without judgement and guidance without sternness, exercising the same kindness to both an elderly man receiving his last rites and a mouse running across the kitchen floor. Thomas found himself wishing he could take the place of Vincent’s flock, to have the man guide him, to have the man speak to him, to kiss the man’s hand.
Thomas realised it was not a bad thing to fall in love with Vincent, seeing as he was to watch over the man until he died. They were tethered, and Thomas had no choice but to follow him around, to keep him at the forefront of his thoughts. Vincent’s profession forbade him from any lovers for Thomas to envy, anyway. Nevertheless, Thomas had once felt a pang of jealousy when a man had kissed Vincent’s hand. He chastised himself for that, but the feelings would not dissipate, and Thomas made peace with them.
In moments when he felt uncertain, Thomas turned his gaze towards Vincent’s face. More often than not his expression was pleasant and reserved. Often when he was speaking with his parishioners he wore a genuine smile, a far cry from the Vincent Thomas had first known. But at this very moment, some time after Vincent had bid everyone goodnight and retired to bed, he wore an expression of pure fear. His eyes were wide, mouth ajar, fingers clutching at his sheets.
Thomas realised, in horror, that Vincent was looking at him, not above him, not through him, but at him. What on earth is happening?
Vincent begun praying. Thomas realised he had no choice but to explain himself.
“Don’t be scared, I…”
Vincent was looking at him once again, the fear on his face only made more obvious from the white light emanating from Thomas' angelic form. Realising Vincent might be more comfortable with something humanoid, Thomas filled the room with blinding light once more, and appeared to Vincent as a man.
“Vincent Benítez, please don’t be scared,” Thomas said awkwardly, “You must understand, I am here to protect you.”
Vincent had now reached for the landline phone on his nightstand. There was nothing more to do than for Thomas to unfurl his wings. He tried again, steadying his voice.
“My name is Thomas Lawrence. I’ve been charged with watching over you. I am not sure how you are able to see me, but please know, I mean you no harm.”
Vincent’s gaze changed from alarm to awe. He got up from his bed and walked gingerly toward Thomas. His face softened when he got closer, seeing the apprehension in Thomas’ face, too. Their eyes met, and Vincent smiled slightly.
“Oh, how beautiful,” He reached out a hand toward Thomas’ wings. “May I touch them, Thomas?”
Thomas opened his mouth, uttering a short yes. Vincent reached a cautious hand toward Thomas' unfurled wing, his fingers ghosting along the top. He relaxed a little when he felt Thomas' body heat from it. Now he knows that I am not a conman in a costume, at least, Thomas thought to himself. Vincent’s fingers continued exploring Thomas’ wings, running a line across the thin bones at the top with his ring finger. Thomas melted into Vincent’s touch. When was the last time someone had touched him so sweetly, so gently? When was the last time someone had spoken to him? Thomas' name was common enough. Vincent had said it when reading from the bible before, and when addressing some parishioners. Thomas knew he was not referring to him directly. Nevertheless, the way Vincent had pronounced his name echoed in his head.
And now Vincent Benítez, the most beautiful man Thomas had ever seen, was addressing him directly, looking in his eyes, running his hands against Thomas' wings. It was all too good to be true. Thomas felt his eyes prick with his tears and a lump rise in his throat. His body begun to tremble with low, soft, sobs.
Vincent drew his hand back in concern. Thomas winced at the sudden loss of contact.
“Thomas, what’s wrong? Have I hurt you?”
Thomas shook his head, but he could not stop the tears coming.
“Please tell me, Thomas. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Thomas drew his breath. “It has — it’s been a while since someone has spoken to me.” he spluttered.
Vincent’s hands returned to Thomas' wings, smoothing them, drawing his hands down to where they met Thomas' skin. Thomas' breath hitched as the man pulled him into an embrace, resting his head on his shoulder. Vincent’s breath ghosted over his ear.
“Oh, Thomas. You have taken such good care of me for so long. Who has taken care of you?”
Thomas rested his forehead on Vincent’s shoulder. Vincent drew lines on his back. He cried some more. He wasn’t sure quite how long they stood there. Time ran differently for him, anyway. Vincent only broke away when his tears ceased. Arms on his shoulders, looking him in the eye, Vincent asked inquisitively:
“Do angels sleep, Thomas?”
“We don’t need to. But we can.”
“You should, then.”
Vincent smiled and got into bed, drawing the covers around his chest. Thomas retired to a wicker chair, positioned near the window.
Vincent patted the other side of the bed. “Come and sleep here, Thomas. I want you to rest too. That chair won’t do.”
Thomas nodded and crawled into the bed shyly. He’d always kept an eye on Vincent when he slept from afar, ears alert for any danger. Thomas knew he always slept on one side of the bed — away from the window, nearer the door — lying still, stiff, arms across his stomach. Vincent was smaller than Thomas, but in his human form the two were both grown men. Thomas had always craved closeness, even more so after he’d begun watching over Vincent, but the idea of sleeping next to the man he loved suddenly appeared very daunting. Of course, he’d allowed himself to think of it — on nights when things were very quiet, he cast his eyes on the vacant pillow next to Vincent’s head, thinking about how Vincent might look from that view. There were times when he’d truly considered lying at the end of his bed like a dog, but quickly dismissed the idea by reminding himself he did not need to sleep.
Now, he lay on his side, staring at Vincent’s face, illuminated by the warm light of his night lamp. He didn’t think he’d ever been this close to Vincent, close enough to hear the man breathing. Vincent turned to him.
“It’s getting late, Thomas. I need to sleep. I will turn out the light. We can speak more tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course.” Thomas closed his eyes and relaxed into the bed, allowing his wings to poke out from the side.
Vincent pressed a kiss to Thomas' cheek. “Goodnight, my dear Thomas.”
“Goodnight, Vincent.”