Chapter Text
At the onset of this emergency, Thomas quietly anticipated that being asked to stay close to Vincent’s side would be the only silver lining in this rather unpleasant cloud. Initially, this seemed very much the case, and he endeavored to soak up the other man’s presence as much as he could – discretely, of course, since they were trailed by a small pack of pontifical aids and he had no desire for Vincent to witness his patheticness, besides.
“Alright, Thomas, we have to start with taking note of each usable fireplace within the palace and the Santa Marta. We must see how far the heat of each fireplace would go, and go from there.” Thomas agreed with his plan eagerly, having no practical survival experience to suggest otherwise, and trailed the Holy Father to the palace’s first applicable area in its vast parlor. The shorter man studied the cold, empty cavity in the wall a moment, before spreading his arms to his sides.
“A fire of this size will cast enough warmth…” he stepped back several paces before stopping, “...about this far. If we mark a curved line along this distance, we can then calculate how many mattresses can fit in that space.”
Even he seemed to understand how upset many members of the curia would be if he asked for chalk to mark the floor, so it was no surprise to Thomas when Vincent hiked up the skirt of his cassock to reach one of the many pockets of the tan cargo pants he’d taken to wearing, wanting to be able to provide any small emergency supply any member of his flock might suddenly need: a small sewing kit, granola bars, a pocket map of the Vatican, an Epi-pen, and so on. If such an action, which he knew even Aldo hated (one of the very few things he agreed with the traditionalists on), gave Thomas a twisted little thrill to witness, well, that couldn't even be trusted to the confessional booth, and thus was between him and God.
Vincent accessed said pocket and withdrew a roll of thin, fluorescent green tape and a small multi-tool, cutting off short strips of the tape and marking the heat boundary on the floor from one side of the fireplace to the other.
He got Thomas to disseminate the calculations of how many people can fit together, texting Sister Agnes about the method, before turning to take in the large window.
“That will have to be covered with something, along with the other relevant windows,” he mused. “We’ll have to find something – tarp, newspapers, sheet plastic or such. And something to attach whatever insulation we find; this certainly won’t hold,” he added regrettably, waving his roll of marking tape.
“I have some rolls of duct tape and electrical tape, Your Holiness,” one of his aides, Father Duarte offered tentatively.
“Really? How fortunate! If you could fetch them please, Father, I’d be most appreciative.”
Duarte gave a hasty nod and a short bow before exiting the room to collect his offering, eager to be of use to the Holy Father. Despite the decades of experience and seniority separating them, Thomas could certainly relate.
When Duarte returned with a plastic tub bearing a truly staggering number of rolls of sturdy black and gray tape, Vincent’s eyes lit up.
“Excellent. Worth more than gold, in many of my experiences,” he mused, withdrawing a roll from the container and feeling its weight in his hand. “I’ll make sure that your supply is restocked,” he assured the young man, who was looking both rather pleased and still somewhat star-struck.
Later, as Thomas, with a white-knuckled grip and anxiety ratcheting up his heart rate, was spotting the ladder Vincent insisted on climbing himself to help insulate the many windows, (some of the junior priests had the admirable idea to deposit some of the already-transported mattresses beneath and around the ladder, just in case) he found himself with a renewed and increased empathy for poor Janusz. It was true that Clement hadn’t been so insistent on performing humble labor himself, especially in his final years, but he had insisted on the open vehicle and meeting the multitudes of faithful up close whenever possible, and he too pushed for the hospital visits and the disaster relief journeys. Vincent was nothing if not a fitting successor on multiple fronts, including stubbornness. Surely the late Holy Father’s habits had stressed his Household Prefect (and dear confidant) to great degrees at times.
Thomas made a mental note to check in with him, after things had settled, and get a feel for how he was managing with the grief counselling Vincent had gently suggested for him. The man needed to know he still had friends here, especially in the prolonged wake of the loss.
*******
As with many other assumptions he’d made in recent months, Thomas’ initial prediction for the day turned out to be wrong. This time, however, he was glad of it.
Finally, after so many long years (excluding the final vote of the conclave), the curia was able to surprise him.
It started with Ray and Tremblay coming back from their firewood excursion. The Canadian archbishop was oddly quiet and physically industrious, lifting the bundles of wood from the cart at the same rate of efficiency as Ray, only accepting words of thanks from the Sisters and junior priests receiving them with a small, uncertain smile. Later, it was Sister Agnes and Joshua distributing blankets and moving beds when possible and mattresses when not. With each handoff Joshua completed, especially to a Sister, he gave a deep, respectful nod, and he would defer to them, to Sister Agnes, to Janusz, and any support staff who advised them of the most efficient travel routes within the complex.
He got to briefly witness Sabbadin put aside his cigarettes and work with the Vatican doctor and a few of the sisters with nursing experience to help keep track of how the lack of power would affect those with medication or medical equipment needs, judging how close to outside insulin could be stored without freezing and what equipment needed batteries or charging.
The most shocking was Aldo and Goffredo. When he checked in with them and found the pair each adding ingredients to and stirring the large pot on the fire, deep in quiet, non-aggressive conversation, he suddenly wondered if he was hallucinating in his old age, especially after the stress of the last few months. Later, when the time came for their total host to gather for the meal, they even agreed on how best to distribute the food in an orderly manner – prompting many surprised glances exchanged between their brothers and sisters.
He saw senior members of the Curia return from their journeys changed, at least to an outside observer. He saw his peers working together in ways he hadn’t previously witnessed within the Vatican. He saw what could only be the Holy Spirit at work.
When they assembled at five, Vincent (back in his cassock after discarding it for ladder-climbing, which Thomas was certain had prompted some of their witnessing siblings in Christ to nearly faint) led them into the Sistine for a briefer-than-normal mass, lantern in hand. Many brothers and sisters brought in pillar candles from the hall and rested them in the wall alcoves, creating tiny points of light surrounding the darkness-blanketed host. The chapel bore a deep chill, but standing so close together, their combined body heat made it bearable soon enough. Since the electric-powered organ was out of commission, and Vincent had asked staff not to spend energy rolling in an upright piano, their musical director Bishop Haines produced a pitch pipe to lead them a cappella for the hymns. Innocent accepted one of the efficiency flashlights to read the chosen passages, giving it several firm cranks to power it up, prompting some laughter from the group. He kept his homily short but expectedly poignant, which Thomas knew everyone appreciated at the moment, even his conservative skeptics.
He handed the flashlight back to an attendant after the readings and homily, and began the Communion by lanternlight only. The shadows were so strong that he could clearly only see each recipient once they were immediately in front of him, and even then only faintly. When it was Thomas’ turn, and in the second after receiving the Body of Christ, he felt the faintest whisper of a thumb against his cheek, he told himself with a clenching heart that it was an accident, entirely incidental, or that he’d simply imagined it. Still, his throat was immediately so full of emotion he could barely swallow the Blood.
When they all came together again after mass for dinner, after the most vital areas were heated and lit, Innocent blessed the humble but sustaining fare, with a prayer noticeably similar – nearly identical – to his first blessing in the Vatican when he’d merely been Cardinal Benitez, the quiet, mysterious outsider.
This time, it seemed to spread far more comfort to their assembled brethren than the previous awkwardness. Some of the cardinals and sisters even smiled to hear the familiar words.
There were two noticeable additions, however. First, he included the priests who had assisted the sisters in preparing the food in his thanks. And second…
“And, Lord, Bless the work we have done and the help we have given to each other and will give to each other this night, in Your name.”
“Amen,” hundreds of voices replied together.
Aldo and Goffredo took the lead on passing out the food, under the sharp eye of Sister Agnes and with help from sisters and priests alike. They were the last to be seated, and, amazingly, Tedesco didn’t guard his bowl as ruthlessly as Thomas had usually seen him do. He merely crossed himself again and began eating calmly, intermittently talking with his neighbors, different from those he usually gravitated to in assembly.
After the activity of the day, Thomas’ appetite was surprisingly strong enough to counter his normal anxious picking at his own soup, and he was able to gratefully finish his meal.
After dinner was consumed and cleaned up after as best as possible, the assembled host didn’t seem to know what to do with itself in the chilly shadows before bed. Ray, in a curious moment of boldness, surprised everyone by boosting morale with a lovely, lilting song in Irish for everyone remaining in the open shared area; one of the sisters had brought in a hammered dulcimer from the conservatory to accompany him. Most of those gathered couldn’t understand the words, but the melody and the intonation spoke of… longing. Perhaps hope; a grief waiting to be relieved.
“Our good Monsignor is truly multi-talented,” Vincent observed quietly with a smile. Thomas nodded, smiling back. But as he listened, a faint furrow appeared between his brows.
“That’s a love song, if I’m not mistaken,” he murmured.
Innocent turned his head to look at him. “Is that so bad?” he asked under his breath. “Christ did command us to love one another, after all.”
Thomas swallowed, not letting himself look at the pontiff. “I think the song talks of… a kind of love that could distract from devotion to God. Or… at least provide a more base comfort than service to God often entails.” He could barely make himself say the words.
“Perhaps people need something closer to base comfort tonight,” Vincent whispered. He and Thomas had unintentionally drawn closer together; like the others, they huddled for warmth. That was surely all it was, he thought, making himself draw back slightly to applaud for Ray and Sister Felicity at the song’s conclusion. When Aldo stepped into the open space Ray and the good sister had been in to suggest it was time for everyone to start getting ready for sleep, Thomas and Innocent each cleared their throats, and mumbled something about making a final round to check in with everyone. They went in different directions, each noting that their faces felt oddly warm for such a cold night.
***********
The Holy Father had made his instructions about sharing sleeping spaces to conserve heat abundantly clear, Thomas knew. He also knew that obedience of that instruction wouldn’t come entirely without friction, which he kept in mind as he made his check-in rounds. However, he was again pleasantly surprised when he made his way to the wing of the palace His Holiness had specifically reserved for the Daughters of Charity and any other female residential and visiting staff.
When he knocked and politely announced himself, it was Sister Frances who greeted him. He blinked, but quickly moved on.
“Good evening, Sister Frances. I was hoping to briefly speak to Sister Agnes for my check-in with all the supervisors for the night.”
The sturdy woman looked over her shoulder for a moment, making sure none were in a state to render his brief presence inappropriate, before turning back to him with a small smile on her face.
“As you can see, Your Eminence, we’re all quite settled for the night, and secure as possible,” she replied quietly, stepping back to beckon him a bit forward so he could see into the space.
The sisters seemed to have no resistance about forming haphazard clusters of four or more on their pushed-together mattresses, some even lying partially on top of others as comfortably as was possible. To Thomas’ astonishment, who was the anchor at the center of one such group but Sister Agnes, looking only somewhat awkward with the unfamiliar proximity (not that he was in any position whatsoever to judge another of Christ’s servants for their discomfort with any form of vulnerability). The Sisters surrounding the stern woman appeared to all incidentally be rather younger than her, and with only slight hesitation crowded in close. In the cold and shadows, they surely flocked to her as a stand-in for their own mothers – and more physically accessible than the Blessed Mother – and after a somewhat tense moment she relaxed into the trust, putting an arm around the two closest sisters, and she soon closed her eyes.
Thomas thanked Sister Frances and retreated to continue on his round, a smile inching onto his face and a warm glow of… joy? Hope? Something, taking root in his chest.
************
In contrast to the sisters, Thomas could see that many of the priests had indeed been hesitant about bunking together until they realized there was no choice - there obviously wasn’t enough firewood for every room in the Santa Marta to have a fire lit, especially as some rooms weren’t even equipped with fireplaces.
This was a problem compounded by the multitude of personal dislikes and private grudges within the curia, he observed. It was here that they appeared to resurface after a day of service and cooperation.
He had to politely tackle a handful of petty bickerings, encouraging his brothers to continue putting aside their grievances for the night; it was just sleep after all. They settled, one by one, as he moved through the groups, but there were some surprises still in store.
He watched from the entrance of one of the makeshift sleeping rooms, as Tedesco and Guttosso – human furnaces of men, surely – each took an end of two pushed-together mattresses, and Aldo was willingly getting ready to lie down between them, pulling a grumbling Sabbadin down with him. There was some collective surly muttering, but the four men quickly quieted, either out of fatigue or just to face the awkwardness head-on.
Thomas quickly moved on, unable to repress his grin. Wonders never cease!
Eventually he had to go slightly out of the way to account for two former members of curia leadership. After a moment’s musing, he realized it unfortunately made sense: the others weren’t so keen on sharing such intimate space with men whose actions, if revealed to the broader public, could again damage the reputation of the church.
With no room left in the metaphorical inn, they’d found themselves at the stables together. But words clearly had to be shared first, as he watched the two men face each other from across a mattress on the outskirts, as far away from the closest fire they could safely stay.
“With Christ as my witness, Joshua, I promise you that I didn’t know the significance of Sister Shanumi to your past,” Joseph insisted quietly, his face bearing no trace of resentment or pride. “I had no idea. I was merely following the late Holy Father’s request.”
The Nigerian sighed, looking down at the floor briefly.
“I… I know I didn’t believe you before, Joseph. But with reflection, I think I do now.” He paused, before shaking his head in resignation. “The late Holy Father certainly had the measure of both of us, it seems.”
“...Yes. It pains me to admit it, but at least now I can.”
They each nodded in understanding, the tension leaving their frames nearly in unison. Thomas watched them complete short bedside prayers, then rise. They sat on opposite sides of the mattress, removing and neatly folding their fascias, taking off and kissing their pectoral crosses, and discarding their zuchettos, placing their respective piles on the bottom corners of the bed. Once his head was uncovered, Joshua was quickly raising his hand to chase the chill from it, but they all knew it would be a fruitless endeavor.
“Do you want to borrow my ski cap for the night?” Joseph asked quietly.
“Yes, please,” Joshua replied in a whisper.
The Canadian retrieved the thick woven covering from his bag and passed it over; it was accepted with a silent nod of thanks. They then turned down the blankets and lay down, back to back on their sides.
Thomas silently crept away, the small glow inside him growing.
***********
Thomas continued for over an hour, checking in with Aldo and the others intermittently, until he was certain everyone was fed, warmed as much as possible, and in their appropriate places to wait out the freezing darkness, until there was only one person left to speak to. He made his way carefully and silently through the papal apartment, skirting a few mattresses near the fireplace, including one bearing Ray, Willy, and Janusz on his side between them. Finally he reached the Holy Father, seated on the couch in his coat and gloves compiling notes from everyone’s check-in of their progress over the day.
“Everyone is accounted for and bunked down for the night, Your Holiness,” Thomas reported quietly, huddled into his coat with the hand not holding his light tucked deep into his pocket. “Other than the watchmen, and their rotation is set.”
“Everyone?” Vincent confirmed with a raised eyebrow.
“Indeed.”
“Very good. We have done all we can, then. Time to rest ourselves.” He beckoned a hand to Thomas. “Come.” He removed his coat and turned to the mattress from his own bed, brought closer to the fire like the others; he folded down the bedding and sat. He gestured again for Thomas to follow, but the older man balked in realization.
“Oh, Your Holiness, I couldn’t–” he stammered.
“It is too cold for anyone to sleep alone tonight, Thomas,” Vincent replied firmly. “Not even you.” They both were aware of how the pope didn’t mention himself, but despite the isolation of his new position, he wasn’t the one with a mortification habit, and they both knew it. Seeing the steadiness of his gaze and knowing his would not be the stubbornness that would prevail, Thomas hesitantly approached, and gingerly sat on the edge of the mattress, removing his own coat and spreading it with Vincent’s atop the blanket they would share. At the Holy Father’s gentle encouragement, he slowly lay down, feeling he was perched on the narrowest ledge above a chasm of the unknown – but an unknown that, God knew, he’d been yearning for deep in his heart. He frowned to himself, eyes tightly closed.
“Do the white robes prevent you from still seeing me as a mortal man like any other? Or… is lying beside me for warmth so repugnant, my Dean?” Vincent asked quietly, a vulnerability discernable beneath the surface of his voice. Thomas swallowed. In the deep shadows cast by the fire, the truth called to him, promising safety.
“No,” he whispered to the dark ceiling, embracing the risk of leaving off one of the usual honorifics. “Just the opposite. That’s the problem.”
“Oh, querido.” He sighed, chastely wrapping his own warm hands around Thomas’ frigid ones, lightly drawing him in until they lay angled toward each other. Thomas’ breath caught at the word that he certainly understood, even though he hardly dared to accept that he’d heard it. “There is no shame in survival, my dear Thomas. You are not taking advantage, and we hurt no one and break no vows with this. I trust you, and I believe you trust me.” Thomas nodded hastily, still barely able to look at him. “Everything else is a concern for another day. Be at peace.”
Maybe… maybe he could have this one night of human, holy comfort. Maybe God was deliberate in allowing the circumstances which led them here. The reconciliations and compassion and care he’d seen in the curia today certainly suggested a nudging from the Holy Spirit. He could already feel the warmth of Vincent beside him, seeping into his person and still further into his soul.
Thomas let his eyes slip closed, hearing and feeling Vincent’s breath, and allowed his own to synchronize. He almost didn’t want to fall asleep, lest he lose a moment of this simple, easy connection.
But the exhaustion of the day won the battle, and within minutes his conscious mind softly fell away.
*************
By the time the pale, cold light of dawn nearly reached them, they were wrapped around each other, still fully in their cassocks, but embracing in slumber with a warmth that easily bled through fabric and self-denial alike. Vincent’s head rested on Thomas’ chest, his hair fanning out and blending in with the dark wool, an arm slung across his torso, both zucchettos discarded in the night. Thomas likewise had unconsciously drawn him close, an arm around his heavily-taxed shoulders. His head was tilted to the side, angled so that his cheek just brushed the crown of the Holy Father’s head. They both wore expressions of utmost serenity.
When Aldo and Ray came to find them with a report that power would finally be restored within the hour, this was what they saw. The two Secretaries paused, and retreated without a word, agreeing silently to never speak a hint of what they had witnessed.
It had surely been God’s will, after all.
They would end up waking in a few hours anyway, to the laughter and shouting down in the gardens, a number of priests, sisters and laypeople throwing snowballs at each other like the children they’d been so many decades ago. They would look at each other in the soft morning light, and find they wished they could hold on longer, and they would each smile bittersweetly, knowing something had changed, but not knowing with certainty how much change they could allow. The Pope and the Dean would later join the group outside, leading an atypical morning mass – with coats and gloves instead of ornate vestments, no organ but exuberant singing of hymns, the ranks of the curia mixed in huddling and hands linked in prayer.
Later in the week, on Christmas Day, after the official celebrations, the occupants of Rome would be stunned to find a small river of red, purple, and black cassocks and dark blue habits flowing through the city. The host moved from street to street, passing out blankets and food, hats and gloves and warm drinks to anyone they encountered in need, a lone figure in white leading them warmly, a smiling cardinal at his side.
It would be widely regarded as the best Christmas in the modern history of the Church, but everyone who experienced it kept their reason for the regard close to their hearts.
The ones they shared the night with would understand.