Chapter Text
Thomas had been back at work for well over a week and Vincent felt his presence did him a world of good. He felt that difference on the very first day - different to the notable space Vincent had felt in Thomas’ absence, but different too to how work, the Vatican, and Thomas himself had been before his vacation. Even after a week, Thomas had been able to retain something of a more relaxed attitude in his duties. Vincent had noticed the appointments and meetings he made were longer than they used to be - allowing him to give the appropriate time and patience to those he met. He would not be rushed by someone else's perceived importance - Thomas regarded everyone's time as of equal value, no matter their position.
Vincent loved him for it.
He could see that his beloved cardinal carried less tension in his shoulders, his forehead was less often creased by concerned frowns, and his eyes less tired. Vincent looked at him a lot these days - more than he had done before, he was certain. He hoped it was not too blatant to anyone else.
Thomas, it seemed, was not yet used to catching him looking. There was the satisfyingly immediate reaction of his lips curving into a small, pleased smile and his eyebrows raised with the expectation Vincent needed to ask something of him. As if the only reason Vincent's eyes would seek him out was because he needed a task fulfilled, and even if that were true, that Thomas would be delighted to serve.
But all Vincent needed was Thomas - all he needed to do was look, see him content, and smile back.
Of course, it wasn't just Thomas’ presence back beside him that made Vincent's soul lighter, but the new dynamic of their relationship they were exploring. Tentatively, on Thomas’ side, Vincent thought, but he was a patient man with nothing but time and space for his beloved.
He had found that Thomas did not initiate intimacy, but was able to return it with relative ease. Vincent wondered if this was partly influenced by his position as Pope - that Thomas might not feel suitably ‘worthy’ to cross such a line himself without explicit permission, or if he suffered from a level of repression which meant such displays of affection no longer came naturally to him. Vincent felt like he knew Thomas well enough now to assume both factors were at play. Regardless, it was no hardship for him to shower his favourite person in his love - and there was always the added delight of Thomas flushing a particular shade of pink about it.
Their intimacies amounted to being held (grounding, healing, delightful); leaning against, or draping various limbs over Thomas on the couch (the pinnacle of comfort); and the most chaste of kisses (exhilarating - Vincent really did feel full of butterflies every time). Vincent did not crave or yearn for anything more than this, these touches, this depth of connection between them, was perfect to him.
Such connection could only occur in the sanctuary of Vincent's rooms, but this gave him something he had not considered before he became Pope: a home. For all his adult life, Vincent had not had a place of his own he would have called a home. He lived where the Church put him, in places they could provide. He didn't consider if he might have a preference - there was no point if he didn't have a choice. This had been no issue to him, he was serving his mission, not himself. All that had mattered was that he had enough provision to dedicate himself to his flock.
Especially with the nature of his missions, everywhere he was based was ultimately temporary. At times very temporary on those occasions he'd had to evacuate sometimes merely weeks or days after attempting to settle somewhere. Again, this was expected and it had not disheartened or frustrated him aside from the sorrow he felt for those who had been his neighbours also being displaced, oftentimes from somewhere that had been their home.
But having to stay in the Vatican, he tried to view it as an opportunity, even though it hadn't been his choice either. He tried not to dwell on the idea of being trapped, framing it instead as God granting him the chance to finally put down roots in the place it was deemed he was needed most.
Vincent arrived at this conclusion after just the second night in the papal apartment, which although modest by Vatican standards, felt cavernous to him alone in his bed. It compounded the niggling whispers of imposter in the back of his mind and he resolved that he needed to make the rooms his own to at least be able to sleep better.
It was a slow process, as Vincent did not have many belongings to his name - despite Thomas’ surprise at his lack of luggage on arrival, he hadn't left much behind in Kabul. It was the nature of always being prepared to move, one could not be weighed down by earthly possessions.
The first thing he'd asked for had been houseplants - other living things to fill his space. He asked Thomas, of course - he felt safe to ask anything with Thomas, knowing he would always be considered seriously and with that reassuring, gentle kindness that was always such a relief even when used in apology or correction.
“What kind of plants, Your Holiness?”
“Whatever grows best indoors in Rome. They don't need to look fancy - anything that will survive here and be easy to care for is fine. I wouldn't want them to become a burden for someone else to feel they have to manage on my behalf.”
Vincent could guess in hindsight, with what he knew of Thomas now, that the dean had taken it upon himself to research and source appropriate plants for him. Two days after the request, Vincent had arrived back to his rooms mentally exhausted to find himself greeted by a spider plant, a peace lily and a cactus waiting for him on the table. Seeing them had been immediately revitalising and he took all three of them into his bedroom that night. Even now his plant family had grown, those three had never left their positions in his bedroom.
His second request had been the rug - something to brighten the bland decor, something that made him think comfort. Again, Thomas has asked what kind, what colour, and Vincent barely had to think before he said Afghan. A week later he had a rug against his couch, rich in colour and pattern. It didn't match the room at all and Vincent loved it.
Now, Vincent thought he might be becoming something of a hoarder. Anything he liked, or felt important, or had a memory connected to it, he kept because he could, because he had space, a place for his possessions and himself. Even the paper napkins that had arrived with the pastry delivery Thomas had sent while he was away still lived in Vincent's desk drawer. He had no intention of ever using them.
And so Vincent had finally started to become comfortable (in his own rooms at least, sometimes he still felt at odds with the Vatican at large) but he hadn't felt a sense of coming home until the past week when Thomas would be there to greet him. There would be tea waiting, the candles and incense already lit, even Vincent's pajamas waiting in the bathroom for after his shower. Vincent hugged him, kissed him and told him he loved him every time.
The first night Vincent had walked in to find his rooms already inhabited, already cozy, what Thomas had greeted him with was a murmured: I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of- Vincent hadn't even been able to let him finish before he kissed him and breathed a triplet of thank yous against Thomas’ pleased, and relieved, smile.
This was what coming home felt like.
So as Vincent, finally, finally came to the end of a particularly arduous meeting, his eagerness to go home itched beneath his skin. Although Thomas was now attending far more meetings than he was strictly required to, he wasn’t at this one. Vincent invited him to nearly every meeting now and Thomas never questioned it, or pointed out that the dean wasn’t needed for such discussions. He seemed to understand that Vincent wouldn’t ask if his involvement was unnecessary, that regardless of whether his expertise or opinion was needed, Vincent needed his presence.
No one else had commented on Thomas being more involved either, besides Sabbadin two days ago when he asked if ‘Cardinal Lawrence really needed to be here?’. Notably, this was said after Thomas had come to Vincent’s defence in disagreeing with Sabbadin’s suggestion of keeping distance from their most conservative brothers to focus on achieving what they wanted in the first few months of Innocent’s papacy. Distance would only make them feel excluded, make them feel they had no involvement, no place.
“Do they? Have a place in your papacy?” Sabbadin had asked, eyebrows raised.
“Of course. Their politics might not align with mine, but they reflect the concerns and opinions of members our flock too. We need them to be able to understand how those people feel and to make them feel heard - to have an avenue of communication to them to explain our position, to have someone they trust guide them through these changes.”
“It is not as easy as it sounds, Your Holiness. I fear it will become a distraction and delay to enacting any changes.”
“And being named Innocent does not make him naive,” Thomas had said, icily, causing a surprised hush to fall over the room.
Hence, Sabbadin announcing his displeasure. Vincent was sure Thomas’ presence was something all of their colleagues had thought on but never voiced until that moment. He decided to take the opportunity to provide an answer that would stop any further questions on the matter.
“Thomas’ opinions, knowledge and expertise are incredibly valuable to me on any topic. I’m sure everyone in this room will agree that he is wise, professional and a highly skilled mediator, so if he is available to lend his ear to such discussion, I feel it would be foolish not to bring him in.”
No one could argue with that. Thomas was well loved and respected within and outside of the Vatican. Even if he sometimes seemed unaware of this, Vincent was not.
Vincent had not failed to notice Thomas’ ears turn red at the praise.
Unfortunately, this current meeting lacked Thomas’ presence due to scheduling conflicts. Vincent wondered if he considered preparing Vincent’s rooms part of his schedule. He hoped so. Despite missing him, Vincent was glad Thomas did not also have to suffer the frustration of this meeting and having him there would not have been able to achieve the resolution Vincent wanted.
He was told in no uncertain terms that he could not make public statements about various global crises (or even name some of them as crises) without thorough vetting and script writing. He expected this, what hurt him was the politics of it all. He couldn’t be seen to be picking sides, to be antagonising powerful countries.
“You’re telling me as Pope I can’t spread the word of God? I can’t preach tolerance and unity, pray for health, healing and understanding?”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying,” Aldo sighed.
“It sounds like it is.”
“You’re being obtuse. You know no one will fault you for calling for peace - that is not what you were suggesting. You were going to decry specific world leaders and political parties.”
“It is the same to me, Cardinal Bellini. Without the specifics, calling for peace is as meaningless as it is obvious. I will be faulted for merely begging for peace so toothlessly, some will see it as an empty gesture and hollow words. I would not blame them for that critique. What you mean to say is that it is an easier criticism to brush off and to make people forget. I don’t believe I have been given this position in the hopes that people will forget what I have to say.
“Silence is an act of complicity. I will not be complicit in any acts of violence or injustice - that is a fact everyone in this room will have to come to terms with. I will be making a statement this week, the sooner the better. I would suggest you begin thinking about how best it can be done rather than whether it should be.” Vincent stood, placing his hands on the table, channeling his frustration into confidence. “I will give you time to consider that. Good evening, gentlemen.”
He left, knowing Aldo would be seething but if they continued the conversation it would only descend into a circular argument which would get them nowhere. He hoped with time and space Aldo would cool down, but Vincent could not stay silent on global matters for too long. Everything was moving too fast, especially in areas of active conflict, while he was stuck in a place that moved at a tenth of the speed to the rest of the world.
For now, there was no more he could do. He just wanted to be home and forget it, just for an evening.
His guards settled themselves either side of his door when he reached it, but as he put his key in the lock, the door opened from the inside. Thomas’ face, even when creased with concern, was such a relief to see.
“Oh dear,” Thomas murmured, gently taking him by the elbow to drag him inside. “Come in and sit down.”
The moment the door closed, their arms were around each other. Vincent couldn’t say who moved first - the instinct was immediate and mutual. Vincent’s arms looped around Thomas’ neck and Thomas’ were firmly secured around his waist. Vincent loved being held by Thomas - it felt safe, stable, protected. As soon as he felt that comforting pressure against his body, Vincent’s spine relaxed into the hold.
“Was it really so terrible?” Thomas’ voice rumbled against the top of his head.
“Mmn.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’ve done more than enough talking about it. All everyone does is talk,” Vincent winced. “Sorry-”
“No, no, no,” Thomas removed one hand and pulled away just enough to stroke Vincent’s cheek. “I understand. It’s alright.”
Vincent blinked back overwhelmed tears - his body’s confusing culmination of frustration and relief. He’d dealt with far worse situations and far worse people in his life, it seemed like a trivial thing to cry over in comparison. He leaned into Thomas’ palm, closed his eyes and started some breathing exercises.
Thomas remained silent. Vincent hadn’t meant for him not to talk. He opened his eyes again to tell him so, but the expression he was met with gave him pause. The concern was still there but there was a tension… a longing to it.
“What is it?” Vincent asked.
Thomas released his hold to raise both his hands between them. His gaze flicked down to Vincent’s chest and back up again.
“May I?”
“Yes,” Vincent agreed, without knowing what Thomas was asking.
As soon as Thomas’ delicate fingers touched the top button of his cassock, he understood. He raised his chin in compliance, enabling Thomas to commit to unfastening the button. The only sound was their breathing, and Thomas’ focus remained strictly on his own hands as he worked his way down the following four buttons.
His progress halted as he looked back up, meeting Vincent’s gaze as he slowly hooked his fingers beneath his clerical collar at the back of his neck, as if Vincent might tell him to stop. Vincent said nothing and his collar was slid free, taking a sigh from him along with it.
Thomas leaned closer. “May I?” he asked again, softer, shakier, uncertain.
“Please,” Vincent’s eyes fluttered closed, trusting him completely with whatever it was Thomas yearned so keenly to do.
Thomas’ lips met his skin just below the curve of his jaw, shaking another sigh from Vincent’s lungs. He looped his arms back around Thomas’ neck to keep him there, to which he received a soft hum in response and further kisses down the line of his throat. Vincent leaned back further, Thomas’ arms supporting him as his toes curled in his shoes.
“Oh-” Vincent’s fingers curled into the hair at the back of Thomas’ head. “Tomás… Mi vida… that’s nice…”
Thomas left a few more kisses before slowly pulling away. “Mi vida?” he murmured.
“Mm. Sí. That’s you,” his fingertips absently combed through Thomas’ hair. “Do you like it?”
“Of course I do.” The response was so soft, if there had been any other noise in the room it would have been rendered inaudible. “Do you want to get changed? There is tea ready for you by the sofa.”
Vincent couldn’t care less about the tea in that moment. He opened his mouth, then closed it again to revise what he said.
“Could you… could you help me undress? I liked that. Only! Only if you’re comfortable to do it,” he added hurriedly.
Thomas’ smile was gentle and calm even if his cheeks got a little pinker. “I would be honoured.”
He was entirely serious. He treated derobing Vincent as if it was a most sacred duty, which Vincent had to admit that anyone would probably consider removing the Pope’s vestments to be so. But it wasn’t sacred to Thomas solely due to the religious significance woven into the fabric, their love made it additionally so. The significance of these new kinds of intimate touches between them - neck kisses, fingers brushing beneath hems - held more weight than ceremonial trappings.
Thomas moved him to the couch, where he knelt on the floor to unfasten the lower buttons of the cassock. A protest lingered at the back of Vincent’s tongue, but Thomas clearly wanted to do this for him and Vincent shouldn’t be concerned for his knees when Thomas’ body was surely so used to kneeling in prayer. He smiled as he considered his rug providing Thomas some additional comfort for his position.
All buttons loosened, Thomas then untied and carefully removed Vincent’s shoes and socks. He held the heel of his foot in his palm so very tenderly that Vincent ached for more contact. He began to shrug off his pellegrina and cassock but Thomas stopped him with a muttered wait, wait.
He pushed himself up from the floor after setting the converse to one side and offered his hand to pull Vincent up from the couch. He smoothly slid the cassock from Vincent’s arms, and laid it neatly and as reverently as possible over the back of the seat. When Thomas leaned into his space again, Vincent was certain he was going to be embraced, but his zucchetto was removed with the same care as everything else. Now in just a simple shirt and trousers, Vincent was truly just Vincent.
Thomas seemed to sense any remaining tension leave him, and smiled.
“Do you want to-” he began, looking over Vincent to the direction of the bathroom and Vincent shook his head before he could finish.
Although he would have liked to shower and change into the comfort of his sleepwear, Vincent didn’t want to leave Thomas’ side at all.
“Just sit with me, please.”
“Of course, mea vita.”
Oh, there were the butterflies again. How could he not have foreseen Thomas using Latin terms of endearment?
“I love you,” Vincent breathed as Thomas guided him down onto the couch with him. Vincent leaned against his side, resting his head on Thomas’ shoulder.
“And I you,” a kiss was placed on his forehead. “So very, very dearly.”
Vincent sighed, entwining their fingers. He wished Thomas wasn’t in his cassock for additional comfort and freedom of movement. The idea of both of them in pajamas seemed an absolutely heavenly concept to him. He snuggled closer, attempting to imagine it more clearly.
“Tell me about your day, Tomás. What did Bella get up to?”
He knew that Thomas felt guilty for retaining a child’s stuffed toy for longer than intended, but Vincent thought Sofia quite enjoyed having Thomas send her a photograph of her beloved turtle in a different place each day. Their schedules hadn’t aligned for a reunion to happen, and the weekend had been when the child had her fortnightly visit with her father. Thomas had admitted he did not want to intrude on this time, not out of consideration to the father, but because he was certain he wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue and giving the man a piece of his mind on fatherly commitment probably wasn’t appropriate.
Vincent would have wanted to see it anyway.
“I found one of the turtles wandering the halls. Apricot, I think, so they had a photo together.”
Vincent had been there for the first picture Thomas had taken when he returned - Bella at the turtle pond with all her brethren. Thomas had relayed Sofia’s question about the turtles names and Vincent and told him if Thomas didn’t know, how was he supposed to?
“You might have named them yourself?”
It hadn’t even occurred to him, because he hadn’t considered them his turtles. But no matter who they were originally gifted to, they had been bequeathed to him. Vincent named them right in that moment.
Apricot (he liked the sound of it in English best), Gianduia, Pistachio, Poke, Patata and Ceci (both cutest in Italian).
“They… are all named after food?”
“All the food we’ve shared,” Vincent had confessed. “Some of my favourites, anyway. The turtle pond was one of the first things we shared, wasn’t it? Besides, I think they are cute names.”
Thomas had been silent for a moment before he said: “you need two more.”
“Well, what were some of your favourite tastes while you were gone? That also double as suitably cute names?”
Thomas had thought deeply, hand on his chin. “Coconut and mochi. Coco is better for a name, I suppose.”
And so the turtles had been christened and Vincent had enough time with them in Thomas’ absence to be able to tell each individual apart. It had been easier to teach this to Thomas now they had names to separate them too.
Vincent listened to Thomas speak and tried not to drift into sleep. If only they could share an apartment and Thomas could always be part of his home… if only Vincent could sleep beside him…
He shook the sleepiness from himself, pushing off of Thomas’ shoulder and interrupting him.
“Sorry,” Vincent said with a sheepish smile. “I was falling asleep.”
“You’ve had an arduous day. You need to rest. Go to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.”
I want to rest with you! Vincent didn’t protest. It wouldn’t be fair, he knew Thomas could tell how he felt, but they both knew it wouldn’t be proper for him to stay, the Swiss Guard would know he hadn’t left.
“Goodnight, mi vida,” Vincent murmured before Thomas’ lips met his own.
“Goodnight, carissime. I’ll see myself out. Make sure you don’t fall asleep there.”
“I won’t,” Vincent promised, receiving a parting kiss to his forehead.
When the door had closed and Vincent was left alone again, he got up and stretched, trying to wake up. He could so easily fall asleep, especially if he showered and changed, but he was so close to finishing his project. There were never enough hours in the day to work on it, especially when he needed to do so when Thomas wasn’t around.
He got his sewing kit from his bedside drawer. It had been easy enough to ask Ray to get him basic sewing supplies with the reason of still wanting to be self-sufficient. Ray did not have a problem with this, so long as Vincent did not attempt to mend any of his official vestments himself. Vincent easily agreed that was best left to professionals.
Vincent would repair his clothes if and when they needed it - who knew when a button would come loose? - but none were in need of it yet. No, he needed sewing supplies to make something.
Asking for fabric might lead to questions of why he needed it, so Vincent had to make do with what was available. He was a resourceful man, and what he had was perfect. A piece of the strap with a buckle from the bag that had travelled with him from Kabul and red fabric from the already torn and worn cassock from the bombing. He had insisted on being able to keep it, it had felt important somehow, to keep a reminder of the moment that had given him the papacy. It was like keeping the shed skin of a snake, or an empty chrysalis - the clothes of Cardinal Vincent Benítez before he became Innocent.
Now he wondered if he had kept it precisely for him to do this. The Lord had been known to work in mysterious ways, after all.
Vincent unzipped the sewing kit, and pulled out the project tucked inside.
A collar, but not the kind Thomas was used to wearing. The black leather and silver buckle at the front, cardinal red fabric around the rest of the outside. Vincent wasn’t sure how he would react, but he hoped if he tried such a collar could help him relax fully into their shared affections. That using this, from what he had read, might make Thomas feel as safe as he made Vincent feel. And Vincent would do anything to return that blessing.
