Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a throwaway comment that does it. A throwaway from Aldo, in his usual blithe manner, tossed off as they leave his office. Their relationship is mending, slowly but surely, Aldo recovering from all that has changed and been lost. It helps that Pope Innocentius cannot help but win people over wherever he goes. Thomas had told him – feeling awfully like a gossip, half expecting to be cast out for creating trouble – to expect some resistance from Aldo in the early days.

(“I understand,” Vincent had said gently, his face lit by the rays of the setting sun. He had not lost his fondness for the turtle pond, and so Thomas found himself there whenever possible. “He has lost a friend and mentor, in whose place a stranger stands. I can place no blame on what grief does to a man.”

“You are very good to him,” Thomas had said, feeling idiotic, trying to inject some humour into his voice. “To us all, small and petty men though we have shown ourselves to be, wasn't it?”

Vincent rewarded him with a soft laugh, eyes crinkling in merriment, and Thomas thought of nothing but that laugh for hours.)

But Aldo has warmed to their new Pope now, six months into his papacy, as countless others have. Even doubters cannot resist the draw of a man so warm and welcoming, so assured in his faith-

(and, Thomas thinks - although he loathes himself for it - so handsome. Who knows how many swoon in the crowd when the Holy Father steps out to greet them?)

-not to mention dedicated. Vincent mourns those he has left in Kabul, cannot fully forgive himself for leaving no matter how often Thomas reminds him that to return would be certain death. So he uses this guilt to fuel himself, working all hours of the day, meetings one after the other that he somehow manages to keep his charm and lightness for. Thomas can testify to this; after all, his place as Dean is at Vincent's side, whenever he is needed, and he has found himself to be needed constantly. His migraines have gotten worse and yet, in a strange way, he has never been happier. 

That happiness is shattered by Aldo's words. 

"-and I told him, don't bother the Pope, just go to his wife - so you'll be hearing from him sooner or later."

The world seems to fade away for just a moment, all noise and colour and sensation disappearing from view, Aldo's words filling every inch of him. They thrum in his very blood, getting louder with every heartbeat. 

"I beg your pardon?" he croaks but Aldo, face already buried in his file, seems oblivious to the shock he has caused.

"Hmm?"

"His wife?"

"Oh!" Aldo chuckles. "Forgive me. Sabaddin found out you'd been nagging the sisters to keep our dear Father well-fed and thought it would be funny to start calling you Mother Hen, and then Torellis started up about his mother never let him leave the house without shoving three square meals down his throat and he always thought he'd marry the same, and then Belmont - you remember the one, can't get him off Leviticus - said you were the Dean here to serve everyone, not fuss about and play housewife, and it just spread from there." He fixes Thomas with an affectionate smile. "Don't worry, they'll get over it. No one can really complain if you fussing about is the reason we'll not have another conclave for the next twenty years!" 

Thomas is aware his hands are shaking, can barely draw air into his lungs from the shock, but he is still smart enough to know his next words are crucial. To put a foot wrong would be the end of everything. 

"You might want to tell our colleagues," Thomas says as sternly as he can, "that 'he who has found a good wife has found goodness'-"

"'And obtains favour from the Lord', we all know 18:22-"

"And that, wife though I am certainly not, no one deserves goodness more than our pontiff. Sowing discord and resentment helps no one." He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, glad for the privacy of his long sleeves. "If anyone truly has a problem with my level of care, you must tell them to speak to me."

"I will, I will," Aldo soothes. There is a brief moment of silence. "I know you would do the same for me, if I held his place."

At this Thomas can only nod, hoping his face will not give him away. What Aldo has said is true, certainly; Thomas would devote himself fully to the care of his friend, right until his dying day, was he holding the throne. But he cannot say, and still be telling the truth, that he would do it so intently. 

Because yes, Thomas has been taking...liberties within his role. It is not technically his job to monitor whether Vincent skips meals, nor make sure someone takes a fresh plate to his room every evening no matter how late he works. It is not his job to attend every meeting, not when all he can offer sometimes is to sit there and watch proceedings. And it is certainly not his job to monitor the turtle pond day and night to make sure none have wandered off. That has probably been his undoing, come to think of it - word will have spread that he has instructed every gardener to come to him immediately if they find a turtle dead so that he can prevent Vincent from hearing of it. 

Yes, that sort of thing is bound to give someone the wrong idea.

Thomas makes sure Aldo is safely out of sight before he allows himself to collapse on a bench. He does not dare drop his head into his hands - even now, someone might see him - and has to settle on digging his fingernails ever deeper to combat the fear rising inside him.

The Pope's wife, following him room to room, standing by his side as the ever-loyal companion, caring for him in ways that wives must do but men like Thomas must not, not to other men and certainly not to the most important man in the world. Another black mark against him. Heavens, how much time does he have now? It's only a short leap from calling Thomas a wife to wondering if his affection is something more, and then-

Thomas, you must answer honestly, here before God as your witness: are you in love with the Holy Father?

Yes.

And despite your wish to retire, do you plan to remain with him for the rest of your life?

Yes.

Thomas, do you lust for our Holy Father?

I-no.

Remember everything you say is before God, Thomas. Now I ask again - do you long to be deflowered by the Holy Father? Do you lay awake at night and imagine his body on yours? Would you give up your revered chastity, if only he asked?

Yes, yes, God help me yes. 

Thomas has known the game he is playing is a dangerous one since the moment he laid eyes on Vincent clad in the papal regalia. He had believed - in what was, no doubt, a foolish and entirely self-centered manner - that the explosion during the conclave had been God coming back into his life. But Vincent, skin almost glowing against his white cassock, made that moment pale in comparison. Thomas had been washed away by a wave of love so over-powering, so consuming, that all he was able to do was let it take him. And why not? For a while, he had no reason to worry. Brotherly love sustained them all, there was no harm against it, and who could make a crime out of loving His representative on earth?

Then the dreams had begun. Dreams of warm skin against his, hands sculpting the angles of his body, once even, horribly and perfectly, a mouth enveloping his cock. They had started and they have not left him, not even as he works himself to the point of exhaustion, and the more he prays for them to stop the more intricate they become. Now, two months after they have begun, his foul mind is not content to merely make him dream of hands upon his hipbones. No, it seems he must dream - no matter how he wishes it would stop - of Vincent taking him, fucking him, in a pew, exposed for all the world to see his sin! He can feel the wood against his back and he wakes aching, a dark patch forming on his pyjama pants. 

Thomas has prayed, he has fasted, he has taken showers so hot he weeps afterward, and nothing has helped. He has even considered staying away from Vincent, but their lives are so entangled now that if his friend does not see him for a few hours he will seek him out. Such is the level of Thomas's sickening need. He has even started sleeping in one of the spare apartments, rather than make the journey back home, just so he can creep along to Vincent's office at midnight and gently chivvy him to bed before he dozes off at his desk.

He loves Vincent and he cannot stop, and this love - this want - has unleashed every need he thought had been ground to dust under the heel of the perfect and pure knight. 

When Thomas rises for his next meeting he is only vaguely aware of the damage he has done with his fingernails, bleeding little half-moons etched into his sinful flesh.    

Thomas approaches the door of his room close to midnight, body crying out for rest, and yet he cannot make himself enter. He knows, deep within himself, that if he goes in he will not be able to control himself. He loses all his common sense when he is fearful, and he has been fearful all day, and soon he will be alone, unclothed, with no comfort but what his body can give him. What he is thinking of is a sin, he knows it to be so, and yet-

And yet he is so tired. His very limbs hang heavy with the week's work, his head spins with unanswered emails and talking points and to-do lists, each longer than the last. Once upon a time mortifying his flesh, whether with labour or pain, made him proud, proof of his devotion. But it is beginning to feel so foolish, and in his exhaustion Aldo's words from earlier cannot be pushed away.

A wife. Perhaps - and here Thomas stuns himself - perhaps that would not be so bad. Perhaps he can allow himself to think of it, if only for a night. After all, he is already helpmate, friend, advisor, is it really such a wild leap from there to wife? He already takes care of the Holy Father, and in turn Vincent could...take care of him when necessary. A firm hand. A touch of admonition done with love. And when Thomas errs, perhaps he will not have to purify himself with the burn of the shower - no, Vincent can guide him back. 

Husbands and wives go to bed with one another, Thomas thinks madly. If he is to cast himself as Vincent's wife, perhaps his soul will not suffer too badly. He has already sworn an oath to his pontiff, does it matter if he swears his body too? Maybe it will even bleed this madness from him, cast it out and make him pure again. No one will ever know, if he contains it here and now. 

He will have to tread carefully in his fantasies. The thought of Vincent overcome with lust is not just sacrilegious but laughable - lust of all things, for Thomas's creaking limbs, his sagging buttocks, his balding pate, what a thought. But a coupling born from warmth, from love, from the need to find comfort and respite in another's body - the one you are sworn to - yes, that he can stomach. 

He is not a sinner, not now. He is a wife. He has- duties. And that, more than anything, allows Thomas to finally open the bedroom door.

In the quiet of the room, Thomas prepares himself. His sleep garments – pyjama pants, a worn T-shirt – are nothing special. Loose, easy to slide a hand under, to push up or out of the way when necessary. There could be times, of course, when Vincent will ask to undress him, to lay bare the body of his bride. Perhaps there could even be times – and this thought sends heat rolling through his belly – that Vincent needs him so badly he will do away with a bed, just lift the skirts of Thomas’s cassock and push him over a desk, against a wall. But not tonight, not when Thomas has only just allowed himself to think of such things.

He lies on the bed, hands by his sides. Our marital bed, he thinks. Not the bed of the Holy See, just a bed, a commonplace bed shared with his husband. They have shared a meal as partners do, they have discussed their days, and now – and now -

Thomas has only to close his eyes and Vincent is there, clad in his plainclothes. The lines on his face are etched deep with exhaustion, shades of purple gathering beneath his eyes. He works so hard, Thomas thinks. He would carry all the woes of the world were Thomas not there to stop him.

Is that what you plan to do? The Vincent in his imagining asks. Stop me?

“Not stop you,” Thomas whispers. How could he think to impede the Holy Father? What right does he have? (What right does he have to any of this, with his unclean hands?) No, he cannot order, cannot restrain, but he can smooth away Vincent’s weariness.

And how do you mean to do that, Vincent asks tenderly.

Here is where Thomas struggles. He cannot allow his mind to dwell on what lies between Vincent’s legs; such thoughts are beneath him, beneath the Holy Father. For Vincent to go through so much of his life unaware means he must have some semblance of the male anatomy, but that is where Thomas draws the line. Yet what little he has gleaned of sexual pleasure between men has been tainted with shame, filth, sordid acts of buggery-

Do not think such things. There is no sin in loving your husband, no? In using what God has given you to unite us?

All he can do is nod, reach towards Vincent. His love comes into his arms easily, warm and solid against his chest. They hold each other for a moment.

Now, querido, if you truly wish me soothed, allow me to feel you. A hand on his chest pushes him down on his back, leaving him splayed and open. Está bien?

"But-" Thomas protests. "It is my duty, I must-"

There is no 'must' here. Vincent's voice is kind yet firm, and it lights a fire within Thomas. Without even thinking about it he has dropped his hands back to his sides, ready to receive what he does not deserve. You may believe one thing about what husbands and wives do, but I believe another, and if you do not listen to me I will be most unhappy.

No, he cannot have Vincent unhappy! 

"Please forgive me," Thomas says. "I am listening now." 

And you listen to me so well. The hand on his chest is stroking him now, deliberate movements that send Vincent's fingers dipping under his waistband, subtle but enough to set Thomas's skin alight.

I have seen the damage done by sexual passions cruelly wielded. I have seen and tended to people with no idea of what making love could mean, only that to be in a bed with their partner meant pain and misery. The hand moves decisively to the legs of Thomas's pyjama pants, stroking and pinching the fabric there. To have been given you as my wife, before God, means that I must hold nothing higher than to cherish you. You believe that you must serve me, mi amor, because that is what you are so used to. You believe I would lead you by severity and sternness. But- and suddenly his trousers are being lowered, down around his knees, and Vincent is looking openly upon Thomas's nakedness - here, for now, I would have you serve simply by granting me the delight of touching you. I have dreamt of you, of this gift. 

Then - oh horror of horrors, what it does to Thomas, how it sets his thighs to trembling - Vincent brushes his thumb over the tip of Thomas's cock.

"Holy Father," Thomas begs.

No. Vincent's thumb and index finger join in a ring, tight where the flesh pulses. Here I am your husband, nothing else.

"Yes," Thomas agrees quickly, he thinks he will agree to anything if it keeps Vincent by his side, and he is rewarded with a loving smile. God has given us this bed, his husband tells him calmly as his hand continues to move and squeeze. He has given us each other, has given me these hands so that I might feel you-

Vincent's spare hand pressed flat on Thomas's hipbone.

These lips so that I may praise and kiss you-

Soft lips against his.

Was it not He who said ‘May your fountain be blessed, and may you rejoice in the wife of your youth’ -

Thomas surrenders. His cock is straining with need, begging to have his whole hand wrapped around it and oh, once he does, the bliss! It is easy, so easy, to imagine Vincent’s hand around him. Even though he feared age and years of celibacy would have him finding an early end, his fantasies have moved him shamefully close to orgasm. 

Let me hear you, Vincent whispers. Let me know I am pleasing my wife as she deserves.

“You are,” Thomas gasps, vaguely aware his voice has turned to a desperate plea. “You – oh Vincent, Holy Father, take me, bless me, I am yours – I have only ever been yours-”

Thomas, Thomas-

“Vincent, darling, please-”

“Thomas?”

Chapter Text

It is late, getting close to midnight, and Vincent has taken a break from his pile of correspondence to sit in the calm of his office. To have an office all to himself, he thinks, still feels alien. He is used to working in rooms stifled by heat, elbow to elbow with his brothers, resources so pitiful that even Jesus – as the missionaries would joke in their despair – would struggle to recreate the miracle of Gailee, crowds sated and full on five loaves of bread.

Now his office is a thing of beauty. It makes him feel – as so much of the papacy does – absurd. There are times when he must remind himself that this is the path God has placed him on, and therefore the path he must walk no matter his uncertainties. Ah, his terrible uncertainties. He has not been able to confess them to anyone but Thomas, Thomas with his desires for a Pope who can doubt well and truly fulfilled.

(Vincent had said that a few days ago and watched a smile – a true smile, not the miserable façade his Dean had worn throughout the conclave – light up Thomas’s face.

“I asked for a great many things, my dear Vincent, and it has appeared you are the answer to them all.”)

A soft knock comes at the door and Vincent sits up eagerly, expecting Thomas to appear in the doorway - who else could it be at such an hour? - only to be surprised by Monsignor O'Malley. 

"Good evening, Your Holiness," Ray says, beginning to sink to his knees in genuflection.

"Ray, my friend, none of this," Vincent beseeches. "I have told you I am Vincent to you, not some figure to be bowed to." He smiles warmly at the Monsignor. "It took me a while to train Dean Lawrence out of greeting me in such a way yet such a mountain was climbed, and I am confident I can do the same for you."

Ray gives a polite chuckle, but nothing more, and takes a further step in. "It's funny you should say that, Your- Vincent. I'm afraid, well, that the Dean is who I have come to discuss. I have heard something...troubling, about him."

Vincent internally sighs. Ah, this again. Ray is dedicated to his job, to his faith, to keeping to the schedule, and for those reasons Vincent is glad to have him. However, he also suffers from the terrible need to both know what everyone is talking about and to keep Vincent up to date on said talk, and this tries Vincent greatly. He has politely reminded Ray, more than once, that gossip is beneath them both; that they cannot listen to a thousand voices of idle chit-chat without losing the voice of God.

Ray has nodded, and apologised, and always returned the very next day with something new, and every time Vincent has demurred. He has no intention of being harsh to a man trying so hard to serve, but clearly a line needs to be drawn. 

"I assure you," Vincent says, trying to keep his voice even. "Anything the Dean thinks I should know, he will tell me in due time. I have faith in him."

"Your Holiness, even he doesn't know," Ray says. "I only became aware of what was being said earlier, and I have been fighting with myself all day over whether to tell you."

A spark of fear catches within Vincent's heart. What could anyone possibly say about Thomas? Could they be doubting his ability to serve as Dean? Yes he is aging and yes his hands do seem to shake more than usual these days but what of it, his faith and his heart are strong and Vincent will not let a soul say otherwise-

"What is being said, Ray?"

Ray moves fully into the office, pulling the door shut behind him, and Vincent is struck by the queer sensation that he is being delivered news that will shake his entire world, a revelation leaving everything upside-down in its wake. 

"It is a nickname, Your Holiness," Ray tells him. "Or rather a title. From what I have heard Tedesco started it, and now it seems many of his supporters are using it when discussing Thomas. I came upon them earlier, after lunch, and they did not see me at first. Speak to the Pope, one said, and-" Ray cuts himself off, winces. "Good luck getting past the dog, said another."

"The dog?" Vincent repeats in confusion.

"Thomas. I asked around, and it seems some of them have taken to calling him your guard dog, seeing as he is…” Ray's eyes briefly flick away, and Vincent knows he is replacing words in his head to soften whatever blow comes next, “…so devoted to you.”

"They call him my dog?"

“The last I heard Tedesco was calling him, ahem, your mangy mutt,” Ray elaborates. “And there is…perhaps…a silly rumour going around that you keep him leashed to your desk, and feed him on scraps of homily. Though that may have gotten mixed up in translation.”

Anger, a sin Vincent so rarely gives in to, rises inside him. That Tedesco and all his followers could show such disrespect, not just to Thomas but his service!

No, Vincent is not blind to Thomas’s care, nor how far it reaches. It does not just reside in how Thomas asks of his health every day, stands by his side for every address; he has it to thank for the meals the sisters leave in his room when his work keeps him at his desk until the small hours. All it took was a brief word with the good Sister Agnes to know what requests Thomas makes on his behalf, requests that he knows have nothing to do with Thomas's role and everything to do with his devotion. 

With another man, perhaps, Vincent's patience would run out – he would speak to them in thanks while reminding them he is no child, can tend to himself (and what are his small sufferings when there is so much good he still must do? So much to combat?) But Thomas he cannot reproach, no more than he could cut off his own hand; he still carries too much grief over the loss of the Holy Father, of what he sees as his failure during the conclave. To pamper the man now on the throne of the Holy See, Vincent knows, is atonement, a ritual that must be carried out. 

“Thank you, Ray, for letting me know,” he says. There seems nothing else to say. 

Ray inclines his head, showing the flush that has spread to his ears. Vincent sympathises with the poor man; it cannot be easy, hearing his friend being talked about in such a cheap way.

“I think I will not mention it to the Dean, this-” he winces “-unpleasantness.”

“No, please. I think it would only hurt him, to know some of his brothers think such things. We will keep it between ourselves and God." Vincent hesitates. "If you continue to hear...such things, please come to me."

With another nod Ray is gone and Vincent is left with his head spinning, aching. A dog! Vincent loves and cherishes all of God's creations, but to compare Thomas - educated, thoughtful, kind-hearted Thomas - to some stray to be kicked about...sometimes he thinks he will never truly know the depths of the petty cruelties in the hearts of men. And to dare suggest, even as a joke, that Vincent would keep Thomas locked up and half-starved!

Unimaginable. Were Thomas his pet he would not subside on scraps alone. Vincent would hand-feed him, bless each morsel, make it as sacred as the Eucharist.

The sudden thought of Thomas on his knees receiving a wafer, docile and well-fed, snags in Vincent’s mind. It blooms, spreads, rises and crashes within him like a wave, and in its wake he feels the tell-tale dampness in his underclothes. Vincent feels his flesh run cold.

Please, O Lord, he prays. I know I have made myself wretched, but do not let me feel this, not now. Please lead me away from this temptation. Do not let my body shame me so, I beg You, do not let sink so low as to crave the degradation of a kind and decent man.

For Thomas is kind, he is above all moral and godly and dear. Vincent is blessed to love him, to spend each day with him, and he cannot sully a blessing with such thoughts. To love Thomas in a way that he knows reaches beyond friendship is one thing; he can let such love fuel his quiet fantasies. After a walk around the gardens a few weeks ago Thomas had been left with a scattering of sunburn across his nose, and Vincent had spent an idle hour thinking how nice it would be to rub soothing lotions into the pinkened flesh. Dreaming of draping a blanket across Thomas’s shoulders when it is cold, or helping him button his cassock, these dreams are not sinful. They are merely expressions of how Vincent wishes to cherish and adore his friend, to spark a thousand small intimacies.

Leashed to your desk, he hears as clearly as if it were spoken aloud. It sickens Vincent that he lets himself consider how much it would relieve the stresses of Thomas's self-abuse, that he could simply be ordered to sleep and eat when needed instead of holding himself as a man who must suffer. Thomas blissfully following his commands, wanting only to be told that he is good. Thomas with a worn leather collar around his neck, dog collar within a dog collar, a sign of ownership known only to him and Vincent-

Vincent bows his head and tries desperately to think of some pure, chaste image, tries to conjure up the smile Thomas bestowed on him the final day of the conclave - how quickly that smile would fade if he knew the extend of his friend's perversions! If he knew his Holy Father, sworn to be virtuous and true, grew wet at the thought of his closest companion on all fours, resting contentedly at Vincent’s feet.

Another rush of heat in his lower stomach. Another unimaginable aching. 

Never before has his body betrayed him in such a way. Even what he had once seen as a betrayal, the reveal of his improper chromosomes, pales in comparison.

“Perhaps I should have gone to the clinic after all,” Vincent says aloud, and then sends a quick petition to God, asking forgiveness for such a thought; His handiwork is divine and Vincent has no right to doubt it. Besides, he had grown quite happy in his body before all this began. His differences are just another asset, another angle from which he can see the world. They are worth any inconvenience, and yet. And yet!

When he had been recovering from his operation, there had been a rotation of nurses by his beside table for a full twenty hours; assigned, he later realised, for the fear that the news of his true body would distress him to the point of self-harm. One of them had held his hand as he had said, over and over again, that it could not be true, he was a priest, he was a man of God, he had been raised to serve only as a man of God. She had listened to him, and she had told him nothing could really remove a man from God as long as he believed. After that there had been time for his questions, and a doctor had answered them so kindly – everyone there had been kind, he still keeps them in his prayers – about what secrets lay under his skin. He had been told that between his legs lay a small vaginal opening, just behind his testicles and hidden by a fold of flesh. That this opening held a clitoris tucked away, smaller and less developed than was standard, but still capable of feeling. He had never imagined it would lead him to feel like this!

Vincent is not blind to the way the men around him bend their faith to their liking. He knows that their hungering for power and prestige is merely the tip of the iceberg, that so many pray with one hand and sin with the other. They indulge, they mistreat the sacred vessel God has granted them, they break their vows of celibacy. At his mission school, even the most pious had at times whispered about the pleasures of the flesh. Young boys, what they knew of sex and intimacy was distorted by visions of hellfire, but that did not stop some of them from laying hands on themselves. Vincent had heard such things, late at night as he struggled to sleep. Sighing and the rustling of sheets, at times a bitten-off curse. He had been curious about these acts, of course, but mere curiosity was not enough to shake his faith. Nothing, he had always thought, could truly strip faith from him. He had believed that even as those weighted with unbearable suffering had wept in his arms, people who had suffered so terribly that he had prayed nightly for God’s intervention to save them.

All these trials, his soul held bare in the Lord’s hands and examined, and his purity is hanging by a thread because of a silly comment. A few words and he is shaken, the words so devoted to you ringing in his ears-

No, no, he must not succumb to these base desires! They are ridiculous, sinful, and above all cruel to his dear friend. He could not make poor Thomas play the dog, sink to his aging knees, not when he sighs over how they ache in the cold months!

He would not have to lie on the floor, a voice inside his skull – rooted deep, the snake in the Garden of Eden – taunts him. What else is a dog for, but to curl up at the foot of your bed?

The ache between his legs grows, begs him to touch, to place his hand just so, to rub until he is dripping and swollen. His bed is far too big for one man, he has always thought so – what would be the harm in having Thomas lying close by, guarding him, keeping him warm…after all, there are times he still struggles with night terrors, and what better way to wake in fear than to a friend-

He cannot continue like this. Normally he would walk through the garden to calm his racing thoughts, but the state he is in just the brush of his thighs against each other send shivers down his spine. He cannot speak to God, not like this, and he cannot let himself go to bed, who knows where his hands will reach?

Thomas. He will go to Thomas. He has visited his rooms before in times of worry, in want of a friendly face. Yes, he will go there to find Thomas still awake - he never sleeps enough, it makes Vincent's heart ache - and they will talk, and Vincent will be reminded of the numerous reasons he loves Thomas, owes it to him to be pure of heart and mind, and to cast out everything else. 

The halls are quiet this time of night and Vincent moves as quickly as he dares. He feels akin to a water-jug, filled to the brim and about to spill, each move precarious. The sight of Thomas's door sends a wave of relief through him, an oasis in the desert. 

He stops outside, listening for signs of life. If his friend is sleeping he will creep away and find something to fill his hours, exhaust him so he can think of nothing but the desire for sleep. 

A sudden noise - a soft moan. Then again, slightly louder and longer, and the fear returns to Vincent's heart. Has Thomas hurt himself? Is he lying in pain on the rug, fallen and unable to stand?

"Thomas," Vincent whispers, hand against the door. "Thomas."

Another moan and then, unmistakable, "Vincent", and Vincent knows there is no time to spare, his friend needs him, is calling to him. 

He opens the door.

"Thomas?" 

Chapter Text

It would be wrong for Thomas to say that he never touched himself indecently in his youth. The desires of young men were what they were, and even though he made his hands strangers to his body – especially in bed – there were rare moments of weakness. Even then, though, he had often been too uneasy to climax, having to settle for a few moments of rubbing that quickly moved into overstimulation.

He is having no such problem now. Vincent’s beautiful face is blazed onto the back of his eyelids, that voice so dear, Thomas, Thomas, and he does not even stop to think that the Vincent in his fantasy suddenly sounds louder, more real, he cannot think of anything beyond the feel of his cock in his hand, the pleasure building with every movement and he is so close, all he needs is-

“Thomas?”

It sends him over the edge, the snapping of a thread. Heat races from the very tips of his toes up to his groin and he is lost, he is drowning in pleasure, swept away by it. For just a moment, Thomas Lawrence feels completely at peace.

So, naturally, the next emotion to come flooding back into him is dread. 

Thomas. But sounding completely different to the Vincent in his fantasy, confused instead of loving...

He opens his eyes.

Vincent is standing in the doorway, and in the light from the hall he looks more like an angel than ever. For a moment, all Thomas can think of is what a true shame it is no one has yet been inspired to cast the Holy Father on a stained glass window; he would make even the dingiest church feel like Paradise. Then the realisation of how he has been caught - how he came to Vincent saying his name - comes falling upon his head, and he prays for sudden death. God knows how wretched he must look, twisted in his sheets, cock spilling over, cum pooling on his belly, all his humiliations come at once. The shame of it is choking.

“Thomas,” Vincent breathes, looking like a man in a trance. He takes a step into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. “I am sorry, I heard you cry out-”

“No, I must be the one apologising to you,” Thomas all but begs. “I-” and he reaches for the blanket to cover himself but remembers the mess he has made – what a foul creature he is, a pollutant – and flails helplessly. He cannot smear the evidence of his shame on the bed linen but he must cover himself, he must take up sackcloth and ash and scour every inch of flesh from his body.

"Perdóneme," Vincent says, cheeks flushed, and darts forward to pick up the pyjama pants Thomas had kicked to the floor. [1] He passes them over, carefully making no eye contact with any part of Thomas's body. Thomas pulls them on quickly, not caring that the fabric grows damp; he will throw them away the minute he is gone, perhaps even burn them.  

"I heard...a sound, that made me think you could be injured," Vincent says. "I had no idea-"

“You will not need to cast me out,” Thomas cuts in, voice steady as he can make it. He will not make Vincent stand in his presence a moment longer than is necessary. “I will not make you do that. I can be gone by morning, it will be very easy. Aldo knows of the struggles I used to have with prayer, he will assume just a crisis of faith and let that spread about. No one will jump to a…more scandalous conclusion.”

Vincent frowns, his dear forehead crumpled. How often has Thomas thought of placing a soft kiss there! And now because of his weakness, this too will be lost to him. So much will be lost: the satisfaction of doing good work, the quiet joy of discussing theology with Aldo, the indispensable presence of Ray, and Vincent, Vincent, Vincent. Bitterly Thomas thinks that this is what happened when you are perverse enough to rebuild your faith upon the rock of a man you desire carnally; the want, once naked in the daylight, tears everything to shreds.

“I cannot see why you’d think I would cast you out,” Vincent says carefully. “After all, I am the one at fault for coming into your chambers uninvited.”

For a moment Thomas lets himself consider the beautiful possibility that Vincent is truly unaware, that he has stumbled upon Thomas’s secret but only seen parts of it. But this dream cannot be truth, not even as he wishes it so. Vincent heard Thomas touching himself. He knows what Thomas was thinking of, what made him reach climax. He will not say it because he is too kind, but he knows, and this leaves Thomas with only one option. Slowly, wincing, he lowers himself to his knees. He bows his head in penance.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Thomas chokes out. The words stick in his throat like a half-swallowed bone, something he must cough up so he can be well again. “It has been two days since my last confession.”

A pause, in which he thinks Vincent will leave the room – of course he will, and he will return only with a suitcase, clear instructions for Thomas to get out – before he hears, “Please go on.”

“Earlier today I heard someone refer to me as the Pope’s wife.” His knees, he thinks, already ache on the hard floor. Good. Maybe Vincent will keep him here for hours, and he can mortify his flesh to the point of forgiveness. “It was suggested that I have earned that name through a care others would describe as coddling. Instead of considering the sinful implications of this name, I was…moved by it.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I abused my body to these thoughts. I broke my celibacy while picturing the Holy Father touching me, arousing me.”

Vincent lets out a soft oh!

“You wanted to be my wife?”

“I wanted…” Thomas screws his eyes shut, trying to return himself to the darkness of a confessional booth. “To please you. To be allowed to use my body to serve you. Sometimes I feel as if there is so little I can do, I see you tired and struggling and feel useless, a manager who cannot manage, but as a wife I could do so much more. You could come to me, weary after a long day, and find comfort in- in my flesh. That way it couldn’t be some disgraceful act, but a duty performed by a wife like any other.”

“Thomas-”

“I would let you use me how you wished,” Thomas blurts out and it feels good, it feels like bloodletting. “Tell me to get on my knees, or open my legs for you. It would be right, it would be all I was fit for-”

“Thomas, sufficient!¡Te lo ruego!"[2]

He has never heard Vincent raise his voice in such a way, and he regrets that more than anything.  He hears him take a few soft breathes.

“I absolve you of your sins. Go with God, my child.”

No, Thomas thinks, it cannot be that easy. No prayer of contrition? No stern orders to lash himself until his back bleeds? He looks up and sees Vincent standing so still above him, expression troubled but his eyes still warm and kind, hands clasped at his front.

“Will you not stand, Thomas? Will you punish yourself further?”

Yes, Thomas thinks but does not say. None of what Vincent is doing makes sense, and he feels as if he has wandered into a room he has no hope of recognising.

“Very well,” Vincent says, and he is smiling of all things. “I know better than to try and sway my Dean once he has made up his mind. It is something I have always admired about him.”

“You should not admire me, Your Holiness,” Thomas warns. “These thoughts, these desires I have-”

“Yes, desires,” Vincent interjects thoughtfully, and then falls silent for a moment. He looks as though he has a great many things to say, but no idea how to say them. Thomas waits for he knows not what, forgiveness, fury, a hard blow across the face.

“You say this was a sin because it involved carnal desire, yes?”

“Yes,” Thomas whispers.

“But you thought of touching me, soothing me in times of strife. That does not sound like mere lust to me, mi querido. It sounds like love.”

I am already damned, Thomas thinks wildly. What is the harm in a little more?

"It was. It is." Tears rise, and he hurriedly blinks them away. "I had hoped to love you purely, Vincent, in a way that would honour you. I only wanted to love your soul, your spirit, your unwavering faith. If I could have cut out the desire, driven it from me, I would have. I am sorrier than you will ever know." 

"There is no need for sorry," Vincent says, and his voice is soft. "I would like you to hear my confession, before you continue being so sorry."

Thomas wonders if Vincent has somehow taken leave of his senses. To be kind, even forgiving, upon hearing that Thomas loves him is one thing; to act as if he, the purest man there is, has some sin to confess that could rival Thomas's is quite another. If this is some deluded way of comforting him, Thomas wants no part in it. 

"I hardly think that could be appropriate."

"Nevertheless." Vincent holds a hand out to him. "Come, Thomas, please. I cannot confess if I am fretting over your poor knees."

Thomas does not take his hand, he cannot, and Vincent does not insist. He pulls himself into a standing position using the side of the bed and stands there hopelessly, trying to keep his hands angled so the shame on his pajamas is not on show. Vincent kneels.

"Your Eminence, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was two weeks ago." He looks at Thomas expectantly and Thomas cannot speak, he has lost every word he ever knew, so he gives a quick nod as an affirmative signal.

"I have loved a man dearly for many months now. He is a beloved friend and upright, devout, a servant of the Lord. He is the sort of man, I think, that I would have liked to know for my entire life. I look at him and miss every time he was not with me." He pauses.

"Please go on," Thomas says, although he can hardly hear the words above the heartbeat pounding in his ears. He cannot, he dare not hope, if he hopes now and it is in vain he will never recover.

"I confess that I have thought of him intimately, but until now I have tried to suppress these thoughts. I did not consider them decent, not when I believed he felt brotherhood and brotherhood alone for me." Vincent frowns, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. "And I confess I have once again prayed to change my body, God's own careful handiwork." 

"How so?" Thomas asks. Vincent looks down for a moment, as if in deliberation, and then raises his head again.

"May I stand, Thomas? I know it is improper, given that my confession is not over, but I would like to be closer to you. If I may."

Although the thought of having Vincent within reach terrifies him, Thomas does not feel he could refuse him anything in his moment. He nods, and Vincent stands. As if silent agreement, Thomas seats himself at the very foot of the bed and Vincent at the top. They are close enough to touch, if just one of them were to stretch out.  

"Let me go on. When I was informed of my condition, I felt that doors I had never bothered to open were suddenly locked to me. There was so much my body could not do, cannot do. I can never father a child, visit a doctor without trepidation, be truly one with my brothers here. It is foolish, perhaps, but all I could think of was what I had lost, instead of the many gifts God had left to me. 'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.' How ungrateful I was! When I felt my body react to you, I prayed. I wished to put my desires away, let them stay choked inside me.”

Thomas thinks he is dying, or that he is already dead and this is one last blessing afforded to a weak, pathetic man.

“Once again I have not thought of what joy my body can still give me. The joy of touching you, having you touch me. When we spoke in the Room of Tears, I felt such a strong urge to tell you everything about myself. I wanted you to know me completely, to know me as I am. And who I am, Thomas, my dear Thomas, is someone who loves you."

His voice is shockingly tender on the word dear, and Thomas's last doubts crumble into dust. 

"Do you absolve me, my friend?”

“Go with God, my child,” Thomas answers automatically. He can say nothing else.

They sit in silence for a moment, enough time for Thomas to take stock of how heavily his heart is pounding. A small, desperate part of him wants to reach towards Vincent. Touch him on the shoulder, perhaps, or the arm; a gesture that he has shared in friendship with so many. Make him sure he has made the right choice, prove how Thomas will devote himself to him, every moment, every day-

"You have heard my confession," Vincent says softly, "and I yours. I can hear your thoughts tossing and turning from here, mi precioso. Will you not let me soothe your worries?"

Images of Vincent soothing him - arm around his shoulders, hand stroking his hair, even clasping Thomas's face to his stomach as Thomas trembles and moans, anchored against him - pop into his head. 

 “I have...an urge to reach out and take your hands," Thomas admits. "To hold them as I did before, after the conclave. But I cannot- if I touch you I won’t be able to stop, I will break my vows, I will sully you.”

"I would not see myself as sullied," Vincent replies. "Not ever by you. You are my beloved Thomas, my beloved friend. Your hands are quite clean." 

"But I am not your wife," Thomas spits out desperately. "And if I am not that than I have no right to you. Not in the ways I dream of." 

Vincent makes a soft humming noise, the message of which is impossible to decipher. He looks off into the distance for a moment, then speaks.

“Do you know how young I was when I joined the Church?”

Thomas shakes his head.

“I was just a boy. My family, you see…we had very little, and it made things easier for my parents, I think, that one of their children would be receiving regular meals. I was glad, but I missed them all very much.” A shadow briefly crosses his face and Thomas thinks of young Vincent, far from home, writing letters to his parents by candlelight. The thought makes him terribly sad.

“I saw them very little and when we did meet they often had a year’s worth of stories to tell me.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “When I was fifteen, my sister fell in love with a neighbourhood boy. He loved her too, very much, but there were-” he waves a hand in the air “-reasons they could not be together, and they were in great pain for it. When I said goodbye to her, I thought I would never hear of her love again.”

Casually, Vincent places his hand on the duvet, palm up; close enough for Thomas to touch if he so chooses. It takes all his courage to reach out and lay one of his fingers over Vincent’s, a barely-there gesture that sets his heart racing. He feels like a frightened animal Vincent is trying to coax out the shadows; a stray dog, nervous and in pain, needing to be tamed before Vincent can set about bandaging his wounds.

“But the next year she came back, and she was in such bliss. She – they had both decided they could not live without each other, and had gotten married in secret. They both knew for as long as they lived in the same town they could never share a house, a bedroom; that they would never have children. You could say they were giving up so much of their lives – for he would never leave his family – for a marriage half-lived.”

He exhales.  

“My parents were heartbroken at all my sister was sacrificing. There was so little this man could give her; he did not even have the money for a ring, he had to carve one from wood. But all I could see – all I can remember – was the joy on her face. She knew that she had found the one her heart was meant for.”

Finally Vincent turns, and looks him squarely in the eyes. He looks, Thomas thinks, more vulnerable than he has ever been. Everything in his heart, every desire, is clearly cast on his face. 

“I understood her at the time. I understand her now.”

Thomas’s mouth is so dry it takes him a moment to speak.

“Vincent, if- we- no one could ever know, not even those closest to us. It would spell the end of your papacy, it would ruin any chance of even a moderate Pope being elected again-”

“I understand the risks,” Vincent says calmly.

“What you’re suggesting is- is-”

“‘The Church as the spouse of Jesus Christ wishes to be loved by the priest in the total and exclusive manner in which Jesus Christ her Head and spouse loved her’,” Vincent quotes. “I do not imagine John Paul II was thinking of us when he said that, but I have been turning it over in my mind. We are holy men, Thomas. We are devoted to God above else, and always shall be. But if my spouse is of the Church – if he already does love Christ fully – then perhaps there is some room for us.”

“Between the world’s uncertainties,” Thomas says.

“Exactly.”

“And I would be your…”

“My friend, eternally. My lover, if you so wanted. My holy wife. No matter your title, you would be loved.”

Thomas thinks, suddenly and very clearly, of all the times in his youth when he resisted temptation by imagining himself as a holy knight. How strange, to look at himself now and realise he is to be cast as the princess, carried away by a knight of a wholly different sort! Once he would have expected the thought to fill him with despair, but now it feels comforting in ways he can't explain. It feels like reaching out your hand in need and having someone clasp it, unflinching.

“I never thought about marriage, as a boy,” Thomas begins. "The only time it crossed my mind was when I announced my plans, upon graduating, to join the Church. A friend of mine from school, he was about to get married and he thought I was mad. Who would, he said, pass up the joys of a wife and children? Who would choose to live a life always alone? I told him - rather pompously, I know - that no one is ever alone, not if they have their faith. But still his question nagged at me - how could I understand the ways in which love might change my life, if I stayed so distant from it?" He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He is no great orator, perhaps, and this is no carefully scripted homily. But from the way Vincent is looking at him, Thomas thinks he is managing to convey everything he feels. 

"I could never have loved as he did. I could never love another in a way that would lessen my love for God, for I am sworn to Him above all else. But I will swear myself to you, Vincent. My dear, dear Vincent." 

Vincent beams, there is no other way to describe the light of pure bliss shining from his eyes and his mouth and every line of his perfect face, and Thomas feels himself responding with the most unihibited smile that has ever crossed his lips. The urge to lean in and kiss Vincent crosses his mind, but he manages - with only a little difficulty - to push it away. There will be time for that, in the proper order of things. 

"Por favor, déjame," Vincent says, and then - Christ - he is slipping the Fisherman's Ring off his finger and slowly, gently, sliding it onto Thomas's. [3]

“I will have to find you one you can wear every day,” he says. “Perhaps I will be lucky, and find one with a stone that matches your eyes.”

Thomas allows himself one second of delight at this gesture before he is hurriedly pulling the ring off, dropping it back into Vincent's hands; he may have revealed himself as a sinner, but he is not that far gone, and Vincent accepts this with a chuckle. 

“Well, Your Eminence,” he says fondly. “It seems I keep casting my vote for you, yes?”

Thomas laughs and finds he cannot stop, a hysterical noise borne from the sheer madness of the evening, and as he laughs Vincent leans up and gently kisses him on the forehead, blessing him for good.

Chapter Text

Thomas Lawrence has been waiting for five months now. It was initially three, but then visiting clergy from the People's Salvation Cathedral insisted on lengthening their stay in hopes of convincing Pope Innocent XIV to come and visit their church: both, as they had boasted, the tallest and longest Orthodox Church building in the world; and the Holy Father, fascinated by this as he was by all things, had eventually agreed. He was in Bucharest for three weeks before returning, strengthening ties with what had seemed to be the entre Eastern Orthodox community, and the papal to-do list had swelled in his absence. There was no room for a wedding, even a private one, on the schedule after all that. 

Not that Thomas minds. Certainly not. Vincent had invited him along ("they have many beautiful museums, my love") and Thomas had quickly turned him down. He cannot be following the Pope to every corner of the world on a whim; that's precisely what led to people getting ideas. He is, after all, still just the Dean; in many ways a glorified pencil-pusher now the conclave is over. His excuses of helping Vincent settle in, find his feet, don’t hold up now that Vincent has established himself. Thomas knows what people say about him: mother hen, loyal mutt – Ray had caved and told him, only a day after the proposal – subservient wife. In his head he is quietly proud of these titles; would that he could be dog mother wife brother friend knight father, be everything Vincent ever needs, keep his cup full every hour of the day! But there is risk in these titles, always the chance they may one day move from insult to accusation. Even when he is a wife, Thomas will have to watch his step.

It is a trial. All trials, Thomas knows, test a man, and that is no less than what he deserves. Christ died on the cross in agony; Job was stripped of all he held dear. Vincent spending time in another country - and doing the Lord's work besides! - is nothing in comparison. But still, it wears on Thomas. He has grown so used to Vincent, to walking with him, eating with him, sitting by his side. Not to mention that they have only discussed the future, their married lives together, a handful of times. 

That doesn't stop him from dreaming, however. Most of his dreams are filled with the pleasant mundanities of what he imagines married life is like: getting dressed together in the mornings, sharing a sink as they brush their teeth, setting the table. He wakes with a warm glow in the pit of his stomach after dreams such as these. But there are more intimate dreams too, and these make him nervous. More than once he has dreamed of Vincent deep within him, sheathed in- in a place that wives have, he can't even think the word but he can picture it between his legs. Vincent, taking him. Filling him up. Perhaps even making his body a host of sorts; he could at least give Vincent that, let Vincent claim ownership of his flesh in that old and time-honored way. Mother of my child. Holy vessel. Blessed and fruitful. 

Thomas is not a foolish man, although he knows he is prone to foolish ways. He knows that part of his desire to be a wife springs from the pure passivity sex would require from him; that it would be, as the union dictates, his job to lie back, open his legs, and take whatever is given to him. Something that would happen to his body rather than something he had to actively seek out, go rooting around in the dirt and muck for. He also knows that he will receive nothing of the sort from Vincent; his husband-to-be is too kind, too generous, for that. Thomas knows how to give only in one way - until every part of him is depleted, until he has scraped the very bottom of all he can give and come up empty-handed, until he is hollow. It is fitting for a man such as him yet Vincent will not accept this! Vincent insists he wants to give as much as he receives, he has vowed this and dug his heels in and remained deliberately oblivious to all he already gives Thomas. Friendship, strength of faith, a vessel into which Thomas can pour all the love he has for God; what else is there is to give?

“Whatever I can,” Vincent had said calmly when Thomas had brought up the issue. “Did our Lord not tell us to clothe and feed even those who are our enemies when they are in need?”

Thomas had conceded to this point.

“Then surely, my friend, I may give all I can to someone I consider the furthest man possible from my enemy?” Vincent had smiled in the way he did when he felt quite sure he had won an argument. “Is it not the duty of a husband to give his wife the very shirt off his back?”

“I have no need for your shirts,” Thomas had said in what he knew was a childish fashion. “But everything I am revolts at the thought of you lowering yourself before me.”

“Nevertheless.” Vincent had taken Thomas’s hands into his. “You will get used to it, my Doubting Thomas. You will have no other choice.” His eyes had shone with mischief then. “Perhaps I will bring you breakfast in bed after our wedding night, mmm? Would you be able to accept that from me, or would you hide under the covers until I took it away?”

“Perish the thought,” Thomas had grumbled, and allowed Vincent to kiss him on the forehead in good cheer. They did not kiss in any other way, and Thomas has not touched himself since the night of the proposal. He plans to give himself to Vincent wholly, chaste, pure above all else.

Thomas looks down at his watch and starts; while he has been gazing off into space six o'clock has come and gone, and still no sign of Vincent. He has been sitting by the turtle pond - their turtle pond, as he privately thinks of it - for half an hour now, and it will be fully dark soon. Still no sign of Vincent.

He wonders, for the hundredth time, why Vincent asked him to meet here. He worries, just a bit, that Vincent has changed his mind, and wants to tell him out in the open so he won't make a scene. The first time they had been alone after the proposal Thomas had barely been able to concentrate, sure Vincent had come to his senses and was going to call the whole thing off. It would only be sensible, after all; why risk his position, his influence, his home in the Church, for Thomas of all people? He had dared to bring it up when they had met in Vincent's chambers, and had received a concerned look in response. 

"You are very dear to me, Thomas." Vincent had placed a hand on Thomas's knee, leaving him feeling vaguely scandalized and, stupidly, that they were in need of a chaperone; Aldo in the corner, ready to raise the alarm if hands began to wander. "I would like to share my life with you in a way I cannot share it with anyone else. You have been that man ever since I showed up, a stranger, and you welcomed me with open arms." 

Thomas sighs, long and low. He will get nowhere on this train of thought, dissecting Vincent's love. He does not understand it but he is greedy, gluttonous, for it none the less. He was happy to take the crumbs of it, once, and soon he will receive it as a wife. 

A soft patter of footsteps break the quiet and Vincent comes into sight, stride quickening once he sees Thomas.

"There you are, mi amor! I was worried you would grow tired of waiting."

Thomas waits, patient as he can be, until Vincent is beside him and he has scanned the surrounding area for any passers-by. Only then can he reach to Vincent, let their bodies touch for a moment before pulling away. His robes are freshly laundered, his skin still bares traces of water from his bath. 

"I am more than happy to wait," Thomas says, fighting the urge to tuck a stray stand of hair behind Vincent's ear. "But why here? Why not your office? I feel as if I am in a terrible spy movie, lurking about at all hours." 

"Spy movies I have not seen for many years," Vincent admits, "but I think you would suit them, Thomas. One look into your lovely eyes and people would want to tell you all their secrets, ¿no es cierto, mi confesor?”[1]

Thomas feels the familiar shock of embarrassment that comes to him whenever Vincent compliments his looks. He was, he supposes, handsome enough in his youth, but those days are long behind him.

"Ah, our little friends have been waiting for me too," Vincent coos, turning a loving eye to the turtles, who have gathered at the pond's edge en masse. "They must know this is an important night!"

"I don't think they know very much, my dear," Thomas says. "While you were away three of them tried to escape for greener pastures. It's high time we build a fence, if you ask me." Vincent chuckles, and then his last sentence floats back into Thomas's mind.

"Important night? I thought we - I thought the night was next Tuesday, no?"

Vincent turns and - oh, Thomas thinks he may well keel over - bends down on one knee.

"Vincent," Thomas hisses in horror. The Pope! Kneeling on the ground! Kneeling in supplication before another man! If anyone catches hold of this, there won't be a confession booth in the country that will open its doors to them. "Get up this instant!"

"You are a very anxious man, Thomas," Vincent says serenely. "I would have you do something about it, if I could."

"You certainly can," Thomas points out. "My dear boy, get up before anyone sees you!"

"Ah, not until-" Vincent fishes inside his pocket and triumphantly pulls out a small wad of cloth. He unwraps it to reveal, and Thomas unconsciously raises a hand to his mouth at the sight, a small silver ring. It is scratched, with no gem or inscription, but it has been polished until it gleams like new. 

"Your hand, my dear?"

Thomas holds out his hand, trembling as it is, and lets Vincent slide the ring onto the appropriate finger. It fits perfectly. 

"Shall I stand now?" Vincent asks politely, and lets Thomas help him to his feet. There are faint stains on his cassock now, which Thomas makes a mental note to soak later before taking it to the laundry. Vincent has given him such an unexpected gift, the least he can do is keep him out of trouble with Sister Agnes. 

"Vincent- how- wherever did you get this?"

"Ah, this is a story you will like," Vincent says with pleasure. "This ring has come all the way from Kabul."

Thomas can only stare at him in wonder.

"Back then I had one woman very dear to me in my diocese, she had set up every single one of her daughters and granddaughters with their husbands and was very proud of it. She often said to me, 'ah, Father, how I would have liked to match up with my eldest! So beautiful, and so wasted in the Church!'" Vincent's face shines with the gentle, almost surprised look he wears whenever someone comments on his beauty. "I told her, of course, that I was very happy how I was, but she never quite gave up. She gifted me this, out of the blue, towards the end of her life. She said that if I was ever to do some lucky woman a world of good, I would have to do so with her father's old ring."

"She has passed on, then," Thomas says delicately.

"Yes, from cancer. She was cheerful until the very end." A faraway look comes into Vincent's eyes. "I confess, Thomas, that I prayed she would live long enough to meet her first great-grandchild, but it was not to be." He folds the cloth, which upon a second glance is a well-patched handkerchief, and returns it to his pocket. "I asked a friend of mine to send a few cherished items when he could, and they only arrived last night. To him, and anyone else, this ring is a mere sentiment, a remembrance. But to you, and I, and a cherished friend now resting in the lap of the Lord, it is a promise to you, my Thomas, adorado por encima de todos los demás.”[2]

Thomas can feel his cheeks turning red. Words, for a moment, fail him; everything he feels is overwhelming, a rush of love and warmth he only ever before knew as God. "I have missed you, my dear."

"Yes." Vincent crouches slightly to study a turtle making a break for freedom. "Bucharest is a beautiful country. I would like to take you there, one day. It felt wrong, to leave you behind, having to keep everything together in my absence." The turtle nudges his hand and he pulls a silly face at it, as if it were a misbehaving child. "I confess, at times I was not present. They would take me around their squares and neighborhoods, yet all I could think of was returning to you, and when I could see you as my bride."

Self-flagellation comes easily into Thomas's grasp, his mother tongue. “I have no ring to give you, Vincent. I feel as if I am starting my life as your bride rather poorly." 

The turtle nudges Vincent's hand again and he gently lifts it, places it back in the water. The garden lights come on with a faint click and Vincent looks up, a soft ah! leaving his lips.

"The sky in Bucharest was not like the sky here," he says fondly. "Come, Thomas. We have so little time before we must turn in." He holds out his hand and Thomas takes it, despite himself. "I cannot have you fretting and frowning, not on a night like this."

The night, Thomas has to agree, is rather beautiful. With the moon fully up, and the whole sky spread above him, he feels he is seeing stars he has never bothered to look at before; although maybe, just maybe, that is the effect of the man beside him. He watches Vincent crane his head to admire it all and, daringly, intertwines their fingers. A smile twitches the corner of Vincent's mouth.

"Very beautiful indeed," Thomas says, and he keeps his gaze squarely on his husband-to-be. He does not look away.  

Chapter Text

In the end, Thomas chooses the shop because of the bad reviews. Not only, the people online complain, is it small, dusty, and alarmingly full of cats, but the proprietress is frightfully rude – and, what’s more, half blind; you can’t trust her for a fitting, she’ll poke you with pins throughout. Thomas has covertly walked past the shop three times now, and no one seems to go in or out. A pity, really, because the dresses in the window – especially the one he has his eye on, with a delicate lace trim – really are rather beautiful.

But the Lord works in mysterious ways. Were it a place of popular custom, Thomas would never dare step foot through its doors. Even now, in his plainclothes and at the edge of the city – another reason he chose it – he feels terribly self-conscious. He feels as if any moment someone may leap out from the crowd and accost him, point a finger in accusation of all he is guilty of: coveting, lust, perversion-

Once again Thomas shakes his head to clear away these thoughts, and reminds himself that what he is about to do, what he will do later tonight, is no sin. He must hold that steadfast in his heart even as his nerves threaten to get the better of him. But then, isn’t every bride nervous on her wedding day?

The bell lets out a muffled ding as he enters. Beyond, the sitting room is unkempt, furniture strewn with fabric swatches, and distressingly it appears all those reviews were correct: the room is full of cats.

“Excuse me?” Thomas calls into the quiet; multiple reviews also took time to complain about the owner’s refusal to learn Italian after opening a shop in Rome, of all places (one review, which had taken this complaint and spun it into a four-paragraph rant on the influx of immigrants, had been so reminiscent of Tedesco that Thomas had made his mind up on the spot to support the woman; pettiness, it seems, is one sin he cannot relinquish).

“Ms. Desmonda?”

Silence, a few soft meows, and then the shop-owner appears from the back, already looking irritable.

“Madame, do you remember me?” Thomas attempts. “I called a few weeks ago, about a dress? John? I asked for the one in the, er, Google Maps photo, with the long sleeves?”

She squints at him; it seems the accusations of near-blindness weren’t exaggerated, which may owe something to her cracked and dirty spectacles. For a moment Thomas is terrified she will set upon him, call him a foul creature, throw him out on the street – but all she does is wave one hand in a ‘come, come’ gesture. He, obedient to the last, moves closer.

“You are the man, yes, I remember. A little old to be tying the knot, no?” Her eyes glint with suspicion. “What, did you just leave the Church? Tired of sharing a room with, how you say, a frocio in a cross?”

Once again Thomas feels the dread set in. She doesn’t know – how could she know – he cannot cut the Lord completely out of him but he has not blessed her, has not said anything to give the indication he is a holy man-

Then he realises she is laughing, a coarse choking sound. A joke, it was merely a joke, if not one in very poor taste. If Vincent were here he would no doubt say something, the perfect little homily to shame this woman whilst granting her forgiveness; but then, he is an infinitely better man than Thomas ever will be, so there is nothing to do but leave the woman unchastised. At the very least, her barb seems to have bled out any suspicions on Thomas, and she fetches the dress obligingly. It is, Thomas thinks with quiet satisfaction, truly lovely. Modest, of course, with a high neckline and full sleeves. The skirts fall simply, elegantly. Alterations have had to be made – of which the woman grumbles “5 and 9, what kind of woman is 5 and 9” as she packs it up – but on the whole it is beautiful. Watching her carefully arrange it inside a garment bag, Thomas realises the low thrum of dread in his stomach has been replaced by a cautious excitement. Now that he is on the day, making the preparations, everything feels real.

“Ah, sir, take this,” Ms. Desmonda barks out, fishing under her desk and coming up with a long white box. On her urging Thomas opens it, expecting spare thread or a measuring tape, and is instead met with a sheet of pink tissue paper. For a moment he is lost and then – as his fingers brush the paper aside to reveal a flash of white – the shock hits him. The madame has given him underclothes, the type he has no experience with but knows are designed to surprise and arouse a woman’s sexual partner.

Dear Lord, never let it be said Your sense of humour is lacking, he thinks in a daze.

“For your wife, yes? Very proper! The bride must wear white in all places, even those only her husband may see her in,” Ms. Desmonda advises him sagely. “On the house, no, no need to thank me! You are old, after all. Your parts may not work unless something excites them. Don’t worry, biggest size, since your wife is so,” a derisive lip curl, “tall.”

“No, thank you- I cannot-” Thomas stammers, trying to pass the box back but she refuses, pushing it against his chest and repeating, “to the happy couple, the happy couple,” until he realises the only way out is to yield. Feeling as if a bomb has gone off nearby, he takes the box and the garment bag, pays what he owes, and leaves before – heaven forbid – she tries to throw some prophylactics at him.

Once out of the shop, Thomas’s first action is to carefully fold the garment bag away inside a non-descript carrier bag; his second is to fight a wave of panic. You are old, after all, how those words ring in his ears! He is, he cannot lie, worried about the part he will play come nightfall. There are two possibilities, both equally terrible, that plague him: that he will prove impotent, or that he will reach his end the moment Vincent is inside him. He could not picture a worse way to begin married life.

Maybe all those people criticising the store online were in the right after all.

The whereabouts of their ceremony had posed an issue ever since they had started planning. There is Thomas’s flat, yes, but Vincent cannot hope to leave the Holy See without being tailed by at least two members of his security team, and what explanation could there possibly be for the Pope visiting the dwellings of his Dean in the dead of night, done up in all his finery? These men are sworn to protect Vincent but they are also sworn to the Church and all it stands for; there is the very real possibility one of them would see fit to raise an alarm. Yet Thomas refuses to even consider becoming a wife in the rooms of the late Holy Father, in the same bed where he had sat and wept and mourned the full rot at the heart of his brother cardinals.

So now he is here, in his room in the Casa Santa Marta. It is not a terribly cheerful space, perhaps, but Thomas has done his best to improve it. A vase of roses – snipped quickly in the gardens as soon as night had fallen – sit on the side table. A few candles are dotted here and there, to be lit when the time is right. The bed linen is freshly laundered. Thomas remakes the bed now, tucking and re-tucking the sheets until they are perfectly creased; already, he thinks with a rush of arousal and joy, he is doing his best to provide Vincent with domestic bliss.

Although Thomas knows very little of sex, celibacy does not equal complete blindness. He knows enough about how and where Vincent will take him and cleans himself thoroughly in the shower, twice over, until the water runs cold. He towels himself dry, shaves, and tries to neatly arrange what is left of his hair. Staring at himself in the mirror, he is again struck by the sheer absurdity of what he is doing. He is old. In another life he could have been a grandfather by now. Dressing up, playing the blushing bride, he must be mad-

“Enough,” Thomas snaps, glaring at himself, at this fearful man who would have him toss aside everything he wants. No more of this. He has vows to make and he will see them through, just as he has always done, and he will do it with pleasure.

This boldness allows him to open the box gifted to him, which upon closer inspection contains a white satin slip, matching stockings and – here Thomas feels his cheeks begin to heat – white underwear, pure lace. The thought of not wearing them, tossing them aside, barely crosses his mind: this too is part of the ritual, the costume. The garter belt he manages, after some fumbling to get it sitting right; the stockings begin to fray and tear along the toes the minute he pulls them on, and the damned clips to attach them to the belt are so fiddly he feels rather worn out once he has finally mastered them. The slip, of course, does not fit perfectly – it sags across the chest whilst cutting into his shoulders and is alarmingly short, falling daringly above mid-thigh. And then, of course, there is the underwear straining at his hips, unable to fully…contain him. The fabric is so light, so flimsy, that Thomas fears he will rip it with a single move. (And surely Vincent, as his husband, should be the one to tear it if he so wishes? Then Thomas has to move quickly off this train of thought, as the mental image of Vincent ripping his slip open, wild with need, makes him feel light-headed).

He feels a fool. He feels a disgrace to the Church. He wishes he could say he is only wearing them because he has always worn the correct dress for every ceremony, no deviations, and why stop now, but the truth is that he wants to. He wants to be the picture-perfect bride in every way he can be, wants Vincent to delight in his body. Once or twice the fear that Vincent will not be able to physically react to him has reared its ugly head, forcing Thomas to think of ways – ways he doesn’t understand, not fully – that he could excite his husband using his hands, his mouth-

A soft knock comes at the door.

“Thomas, mi amor? May I come in?”

For a second Thomas can do nothing but stand there and quietly curse before springing into action, whispering “wait, wait” at the door, taking the dress from its hanger on his wardrobe and pulling it on-

“Thomas?”

“In a minute!” he hisses as loudly as he dares, hands fumbling with the zip on the back – why won’t it move, why won’t it move – before he finally manages to do the dress up. Please, Lord, he thinks in desperation, do not let me fail Your servant now. Let me give him every joy he deserves.

With that one last prayer, he opens the door to-

Oh. Oh, Vincent is already the most beautiful man Thomas has ever known, ever had the privilege of knowing, but here on his wedding night he is something else. Clad in the papal whites that Thomas knows are reserved for the blessing of weddings, head uncovered to reveal softly curling hair, he is a man born to praised, adored, worshipped.

“Your Eminence,” Vincent says in clear delight. “You are a vision.”

“A comic one, perhaps,” Thomas deflects, feeling his old worries crawling up his spine again. How could he ever dare to touch Vincent, when he looks like this?

“Certainly not.” Vincent makes a gentle indication at the room and Thomas, briefly coming back to his senses, steps back to let him in. “You are the most beautiful sight I can imagine.” His hand goes to Thomas’s, thumb tracing the ring Thomas wears there, and he smiles warmly. “And the most beautiful bride.”

The ceremony, inasmuch as it is, goes very quickly. They have the vows, the rings, the Liturgy of the Word, and the blessings; little else is needed. After all, Thomas thinks, their only true witness is God, and He will no doubt intervene if deeming it necessary. But the ceremony passes without incident, there are no plagues, no swarms of locusts or roofs being blown off, and when Vincent declares them formally married Thomas moves into the kiss without hesitation, the easiest thing in the world. It is easy, too, to let Vincent undress him, to remove Vincent's robes and then the clothes he wears underneath, a plain shirt and trousers, to move onto the bed and let Vincent kiss him there, one hand cupped around his calf, thumb tracing the decorative pattern of his stockings. This much, at least, Thomas can let himself do; he is still caught up in the joys of being called wife, of swearing himself to Vincent. 

“What would you like from me?” Vincent asks once he has settled Thomas back against the pillows, fussing over them to ensure he is lying comfortably. A thousand desires light up inside Thomas’s mind – to be kissed along the curve of his neck, to be forgiven, to be praised, to be crucified, to be taken over Vincent’s knee and flayed until pure again, to-

“Your- fingers, please, dearest,” he finally settles on, feeling his face pinken.

“Of course.” Vincent slides two of his long, elegant fingers into his mouth and sucks, cheeks hollowing with the force of the action. Thomas cannot suppress a small groan at the sight, his heart beginning to race, and Vincent turns a loving eye upon him. He settles onto the bed between Thomas’s spread legs, places his hands on the slip’s hem and reverently draws it up -  seek, and you will find, Thomas thinks wildly, knock, and the door will be opened to you – until what lies underneath is exposed.

“Thomas,” Vincent breathes, “is- are these what I think?” His fingers hover and twitch, as if uncertain whether they can touch.

“The woman at the shop, she threw them at me, all of it,” Thomas confesses, trying not to push his hips forward just an inch, just enough so Vincent’s hand can finally make contact. “She, ah, said it was only proper for the bride to be clad in white.”

“Very proper,” Vincent says, voice husky. “Very lovely.” He lowers his head and places his lips over the fabric, a kiss that burns like a holy seal on Thomas’s hip. He can barely keep himself from whimpering as his cock reacts, beginning to strain at the fabric.

“Vincent,” he starts, not knowing what to do – it is unseemly for a wife to beg and especially to order – and Vincent, ever-wise, places a soothing hand on his thigh.

“I know, I know. I will take care of you.”

Carefully he unclips the stockings, drawing them down one at a time. His fingers are unsure but gentle as he fusses over the garter belt, expressing admiration that Thomas was able to put such a complicated thing on; when he has finally removed it, he places it carefully on the bedside table. Finally, Vincent hooks his fingers underneath Thomas’s underwear and carefully pulls it down, guiding it over Thomas’s legs and feet to leave him bare. With the slip hiked up around his waist Thomas is fully exposed, has to fight the ingrained urge to cover his sin with his hands.

Vincent is his husband. He is allowed to look.

“You are perfect, my beloved,” Vincent says. A light flush has entered his cheeks. “Please, if you could-” he moves his hands to the meat of Thomas’s inner thighs, gently pressing “-if you could hold yourself open for me?”

Thomas does so, aware that his hands are trembling. Vincent carefully slides a finger in and for a moment all it feels is slightly odd, an intrusion that Thomas has to force himself to relax into. Vincent moves carefully, cautiously, his other hand tracing the curve of Thomas’s hip over and over. For a moment everything is well, Thomas beginning to carefully rock against the movement of Vincent’s hand – it still doesn’t feel pleasurable but that’s all right, his body needs time. He expected this sort of thing.

“May I add another?” Vincent asks and Thomas nods, watches breathlessly as Vincent lines up a second finger, slides it in. This is a little harder to bear, and he can’t hide his grimace from Vincent.

“Thomas-”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Thomas assures; the last thing he wants is Vincent pulling away and them having to restart this.

“Thomas,” Vincent says with something close to sternness. “You promised you would be honest with me. I am not going to sit here and let you be in pain, and you should not ask me to do so.”

“I promise,” Thomas begins, pushes himself down further but then something twists inside him, something aches, and what is left of his erection definitively flags. Vincent sees, and is kind enough to say nothing, just to carefully remove his fingers. Thomas cannot stop himself from making a small sound of relief at this.

“Darling,” Vincent says desperately, face set in anguish. Only just married, and already his bride has disappointed him!

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas whispers. Once again his body has failed him, his weak and useless flesh, unable to do this one simple thing. He wants to tear his skin to shreds. “I don’t- I don’t know what to do-”

“Shh, shh,” Vincent soothes him. “Nada se pierde, mi tesoro. There is- something I know of, I have no practical knowledge of it, but it may work to excite you.”[1] He pauses then adds, delicately, “it would get you very wet for me, also.”

For a moment Thomas is confused – wet? – then what Vincent has in mind hits him.

“Your mouth- there?”

“Only if you want it.”

“My- Vincent, you don’t have to, that is not- an act I would ever ask you to do.” That’s putting it lightly, Thomas thinks; never in all his dreams would he have dared to ask Vincent for such a, well, a degrading act, a downright filthy one.

“I do not do things unless I believe they should be done,” Vincent reminds him. “I act according to my conscience, and my conscience is telling me to pleasure my wife. Would you like me to do this?" His gaze is loving, yet the familiar steel that hides under Vincent's calm and serenity lingers there. He will not, Thomas realises, be talked out of an act because it is seen as immoral, or beneath him; he will only refuse to do something if Thomas does not want it. Every reluctance he has about Vincent serving him in such a way fades to near nothingness. His concerns will, Thomas knows, return, and no doubt be something he grapples with as he and Vincent continue such physical intimacies. Never mind. Rome was not built in a day. 

"Then I would like that," Thomas admits. "How should I- place myself?"

“In this position it will not work,” Vincent muses. “Would you be comfortable on all fours, querido?”

Thomas takes a moment to consider this. He can understand the practicalities of such a position, the easy access, but he categorically does not want his first time to be with his face pressed against the bed, unable to see the man inside him, to feel as if he must avert his eyes. 

“I can do that, but I- I do not want to finish like that, my dear, I want,” his hands squeeze the blankets desperately, “I want to be able to see you when, when…”

Vincent leans in and swiftly, carefully, presses their foreheads together. "I would not ask you to do that," he reassures. "When you open to me, when I am inside you, I want to be able to see everything. It will just be for a little bit, yes?"

Thomas nods.

They take a moment to re-arrange themselves, Vincent helping Thomas place his elbows so he is evenly balanced on them, placing a hand on his back and guiding him down, down, so his face is against the mattress with his behind in the air. His slip has rucked up around his shoulders, leaving his lower half entirely on show, and Thomas is glad the incident earlier has left him empty of shame otherwise he would not be able to go through with this.

“If you don’t like this, or if you want to me to stop,” Vincent says from somewhere above him, “you need only say the word. I will not have my wife suffering my touch because of what she thinks she must do. Understood?”

“Yes,” Thomas croaks out, feeling chastised, feeling guided and managed by Vincent in the way he has always wanted.

“Good.” Hands again, this time on his hips, keeping him in place. Thomas wonders what he must look like to Vincent, surely nothing good, not from this angle-

A hint of wetness against his most vulnerable place and then Vincent is fully there, tongue circling and tasting, his lips soft against the skin. He kisses Thomas’s arsehole like it is something to be blessed, something sacred, and as he kisses his tongue moves, first playing over the rim and then further, in-

A spark of something electric runs through Thomas’s body. The limp thing between his legs gives a small twitch, some sign of life.

“Move against me,” he feels Vincent order from where he is pressed to Thomas. “Move your hips as you need.”

Thomas slowly pushes himself back, pushing Vincent’s tongue further into him and- oh Christ, the pleasure is sudden and shocking, it moves through him like an electric current-

“There,” he moans. “Please, Vincent, right there- please-” and Vincent does as he asks, keeps his tongue right where it is needed, running it up and down that small nub of flesh until Thomas is shaking. Vincent’s hands are on him, opening him up, entire tongue inside him and once Thomas can find the words he asks – begs – for Vincent to try his hand again, and this time it is perfect, Vincent placing a finger right on the pulse of Thomas’s arousal, then two, three, he curls them just right and Thomas wails. He thinks, absurdly, of the roses in the gardens coming into full bloom; one day a furled bud, the next a wide explosion of colour, and he is coming into flower, opening up under Vincent’s careful touch, it is so good, too good, that a part of his body that had betrayed him so, reminded him of the frailty of his mortal self and removed him from the Secretary of State position, could feel so wonderful!

“Thomas,” he hears Vincent say, and suddenly his mouth is gone and Thomas is unconsciously, wantonly chasing the sensation, pressing his hips further back, “beloved, you’re weeping, am I hurting you?”

Oh, Thomas thinks with calm surprise. Yes, he is weeping, his eyes are damp and now that he has come back into himself he can hear the sound of broken sobs coming from his mouth, can feel them racking his body.

“No, no, you’ve done nothing wrong,” he says, or tries to around the hitch in his throat, the raw sounds of crying he cannot halt. “It’s so good, Vincent, I never dreamed- I could never have imagined, not in all my years.”

Hands on his shoulders and his husband gently turns him over into a seated position, the worry on his face clear. His eyes widen at the tears on Thomas’s cheeks, reaching out to brush them away.

“Do you promise me these are not tears of pain or sorrow?”

“Yes, yes, I promise,” Thomas pleads. “My darling, I didn’t- I was so worried I would not be able to give you what you want, that my body would not serve, I’m so sorry. I should have trusted you. Please, Vincent, I’ve waited for you, only you, I need you.”

Vincent leans in to kiss him again, a kiss different from the ones before – it is deeper, more intent, and as they kiss Vincent snakes his arm around Thomas’s waist, pulls him down until he is flat on his back. He draws back, hands going to Thomas’s hips.

Slowly, carefully, they remove Thomas’s slip together. Vincent places a hand on his bare chest, for a moment doing nothing but feeling his heart beat, giving Thomas a moment to calm himself. Thomas lowers his hands to Vincent’s waist, fingers waiting on the waistband of his underwear until Vincent nods, then pulling them down. There is a dark mass of curls between Vincent’s legs, cock jutting proudly out, beads of precum already dotting the tip. It is not very large but it is, Thomas thinks, perfectly shaped, and the desire to wrap his hand around it is one he quickly satisfies, oh, the warmth and weight of Vincent, the way his cock pulses with need, the way Vincent shudders above him, a gasp leaving his mouth.

“My husband,” Thomas says, knowing he must make this final vow perfect, convince Vincent completely that he is not doing this because of duty or the desire to serve but because he wants Vincent, needs him, is so empty without him. “My shepherd.” Carefully he moves his hand along Vincent, down his cock to his thighs, around and over the curve of his behind to rest on his back. He applies the slightest pressure – just a nudge – and Vincent lowers himself obediently, lying upon Thomas with his full weight. His cock is resting hot and heavy between Thomas’s legs, so perfectly close to where it is needed.

Thomas tips his head up and looks at Vincent, the red in his cheeks, the clear want in his eyes. He has been so patient, has waited and tended to his wife so well, and Thomas tells him this in a voice that does not rise above a murmur, but now his wife needs him, she is aching and he is the only one who can help her, the only one she will ever want, ever love, they are together in their marital bed and she has been afraid, yes, but that fear is gone now. Will he help her? Will he give what only he can give?

It takes them a moment to arrange their bodies and the first time he tries Vincent cannot enter Thomas properly, must pull back and correct himself and Thomas keeps his hand on the small of his husband’s back to guide him in, a careful movement and then-

“Dios mío, oh qué regalo me has dado,” Vincent says in awe.[2] “Thomas, beloved, are you all right? How does it feel?”

“I cannot say,” Thomas admits through gritted teeth. “If I say the truth I will blaspheme, dearest, that is how good it is, I would have you crowned as a saint in the morning for what you are doing to me.”

Vincent laughs and as he laughs his hips move, just a little, and Thomas decides he does not mind a little blasphemy, not this one time, and he tells Vincent it feels like Heaven, which makes Vincent smile proudly and move his hips again, even harder, and after that there truly is no hope for Thomas, nothing he can do but cling to his husband and let himself be loved, let every part of his body be set alight, and when Vincent slides his hands, strong and callused, under Thomas, lifts him so he is better seated on Vincent’s cock, so they can move in a rhythm, the feeling is divinity itself and there is no room for fear, for shame, for doubt. It is, Thomas thinks, just like the moment God spoke to him in the chapel, and he knows this is sacrilegious but in this moment he feels closer to God than he has in years, God is near, God is in every inch of him singing like a heavenly choir and he is singing joy, joy, joy.

Chapter Text

Doting!Wife Thomas on: https://postimg.cc/RNDBNmPx

*If you cannot access it please PLEASE tell me, I have been updating and editing this chapter trying to get the art in for the best part of an HOUR