Work Text:
Antiseptic stench gathers under arid summer heat. Vincent lifts his sweaty palm from the plastic cot and breathes through the radiating pain in his wrist.
He hates the summer. He hates Thomas for being so overbearing and forcing him to the doctor’s. Above all, Vincent hates the slippery stairs to the chapels. He sets his jaw.
There is no reason for ungratefulness, he tells himself. Forgive me, he would say, if the words hadn’t become a farce within the past year. How often will he beg for it? Forgiveness – grace – condonation? He used to be so much more resilient towards the decay of the heart. Maybe it’s his age, maybe his position. Maybe the distance is getting to him; Being away from suffering that isn’t about taxes and clothing and a little sprain in a wrist. Vincent winces. It really does sting.
The doctor’s fingers are probing, warm and gentle, but not careful enough. He tries not to flinch and instead drills his fingernails into this left palm. He closes his eyes and prays for strength first and a painkiller second. Well, maybe it hadn’t been unwise of Thomas to suggest a doctor. After all, it was probably for the better if they had a pope who could hold a pen.
“Yes,” the doctor says, opening a digital copy of Vincent’s X-ray, “that’s definitely broken”
He looks up. “Broken?”
“Certainly,” she huffs cheerfully, “Did you not notice?”
Timidly, he averts his eyes and shakes his head. Admitting to having failed at recognizing an injury feels worse than mispronouncing Dómine, diléxi decórem during mass. Vincent would know.
Staccato clicks perforate the air; The doctor’s nimble fingers type her way across the keyboard. She rattles the mouse around and pulls out a piece of paper.
“So, Mister…”
“Benítez”
Her raised eyebrows force him to clear his throat: “B-E-N-I-with an acute accent-T-E-Z. Vincent.”
“Mister Benítez,” she sighs, “you’re getting a soft cast in a minute. I just need to get a few personal details… Who is your general physician?”
Vincent stutters: “Uh… I don’t have one, at the moment”
Pausing in unease, the doctor swallows. “Okay,” she ticks something, “that’s something to consider in the future, alright? I need you telephone number and you address”
Another question he doesn’t know how to answer satisfactorily: “I don’t… I can give you my mobile number?”
She shrugs. “Whatever works best for you”
“Yes,” his left hand scurries across his torso: Breast pockets, trouser pockets, front and back, then comes to a rest feeling the device in his jacket, “Of course. One second”
Searching for his own number in his contact list, he shifts nervously like a bug under a magnifying glass: “My address is just Vincent Benítez, zero zero, one hundred and twenty, Vatican City”
He meets her confused eyes, her lips slightly parted: “Oh, so you are…”
“Yeah,” he cringes.
Her eyes soften in sympathy. “Okay, well, let me check. I think there are some specific policies for… local clergymen… Are you privately insured, then?”
“I don’t know,” he stutters again.
She sighs and Vincent feels awful. This is just making her job unnecessarily harder. Why hadn’t there been some briefing about healthcare? What – they had had time to put him into new fancy clothes and parade him around town but there hadn’t been time to explain his insurance policy to him?
“This is your first time in a hospital in Rome, presumably?”
“Yes,” he pulls himself from his thoughts.
“Have you been living here long?” her voice had turned familiar and casual.
“Nearly a year,” he smiles.
“Do you pay your insurance fee?” There is a fee?
“I haven’t had the chance to – I don’t even have an income”
“Okay, listen,” she turns to him, “Relax. We can put you down as a non-citizen, meaning that you may have to pay for the cast. Can you call someone? Like, a friend or a coworker who might know more about your… situation?”
Huh, yeah. Vincent hadn’t considered that. “Sure,” he says and the doctor smiles.
“I’ll step out for a bit”
If Thomas loathes anything more than scheming Cardinals, it’s endlessly ringing cell phones.
This is the third time he had been interrupted today: First by Aldo, excusing a late arrival; Then by a spam caller, talking about his non-existent car. Thomas rolls his eyes at the vibrating device and reluctantly turns it over.
He freezes. Vincent? His fingers hover centimeters above the screen. Why would he call in the middle of the day?
Thomas picks up the phone and rises from his chair: “Lawrence?”
His friend’s voice comes through the speaker, small and a little rough around the edges: “Am I insured?”
Worry shoots through his body like ice. “Insured? Why, Vincent? Yes, of course you are. We all are,” he lifts his thumb to his lips, gnawing lightly on the skin.
Static for a moment, then a feeble sniffle: “And how does that work?”
This is ridiculous, thinks Thomas. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the doctor’s,” he swallows, “You suggested it, actually.”
“My friend, you are not making any sense. Why would you be asked for your insurance?”
“What?! Thomas? Have you ever been to a doctor?”
Yes, he nearly says, I have been quite recently, thank you very much, but decides against it. Whatever qualm Vincent has would not be solved with forceful words.
“Vincent,” he takes his nose bridge between thumb and index, “Explain to me why the in-house physician, who has been working with the Curia since John Paul the second, is asking you if you are insured?”
Silence – long silence on both ends, until a near explosive question erupts from Vincent’s lips: “Who?”
“What?”
“I said–”
“Who–”
“Yes.”
“No! What do you mean, who? I mean the physician that nearly all of us see! Vincent, where are you?”
Background static and a small laugh: “Uh, I’m downtown. Like, in a hospital. I didn’t know we had a doctor”
Well, it doesn’t happen to him a lot, but the words do render Thomas seriously speechless.
“The one, like, right in front of the basilica,” Vincent explains, “Like, right at the Tiber”
“Santo Spirito? That one?”
“I don’t know, Thomas,” his voice strained and tired. Thomas makes out an ambiguous thud in the background before Vincent sighs: “You told me to go and see a doctor with the wrist and I did that and then she took some pictures and then she told me that it was ‘definitely broken’ and that I’m kind of an idiot not to notice and now I’ll get a fucked-up cast but not before I can name my insurance and I don’t even–”
“Vincent.”
“And she’s just stepped out so that I can call you and I don’t know how or if I’m insured or whatever but she really needs to know and it hurts and…”
He takes a breath. “Vincent”
“I’m so sorry. Sorry. I’m being incredibly uncharitable to you. Forgive me. Fuck. Yeah, I don’t know, that’s all I called you for: Am I insured? If yes, how?”
Thomas closes his eyes and nearly misses the addendum: “Also, could you pick me up?”
He presses his lips together. He hates the way Vincent implies no expectation for mercy. Thomas grabs his shoes and keys: “Right at the Tiber, you said?”
Vincent shivers. Sure, the noon sun feels oppressive in its heat even indoors, yet, Vincent might just have been doused in ice. His shoulders tremor no matter how hard he wills them not to.
His wrist is still screaming at him – He understands the whole paperwork-situation, but he would really appreciate an ibuprofen right about now. With nothing else to do, he lets his head fall back against the wall, only perking up when the door opens and a nurse enters.
Vincent greets him and he greets back. He carries an empty metal tray that he places on one of the counters and opens a cupboard. The plastic rustles as he collects what must be syringes, caps and gauze pads. He throws Vincent a second, longer look, a timid smile hugging his lips: “Tough day?”
“Really stupid day,” says Vincent, looking away. He hadn’t meant to stare. Rubbing his nose with his sleeve, he feels a little like a hormonal teenager again.
“Hey, come on,” the guy says, turning to him, “Cut yourself some slack – No one cares if you’re sobbing on that cot. I know I probably would,” the words making Vincent smile.
“Uh, I’m just seeing here,” the nurse says, “that we still need some form of ID from you. Do you have anything with you… passport, driver’s license, staff badge?”
“I think I have my work ID with me?”
“That’s fine,” he says, coming up to where Vincent sits, “As long as it has a photo and name on it, we can use it”
Fighting with his fingers, fishing the plastic out of his wallet with limited mobility, Vincent admits: “You have to promise not to laugh, though. I look really stupid”
“I don’t laugh at injured people,” says the man, “on principle,” but Vincent shakes his head and cradles the plastic to his chest, shielding it from prying eyes.
“Not good enough. You have to promise me for this”
The man chuckles anxiously. “How bad could it be?”
“Really bad. They refused to allow me to take off the hat”
He furrowed his brows. “The hat? You had to wear a hat for your picture?”
Vincent nods.
“Okay. How about we exchange. I’ll show you mine, and you’ll show me yours.”
Clipping his work badge off his belt, he hands his ID to Vincent with a sigh.
“Wow,” he comments at the prison-like headshot. It’s a little overexposed and there had clearly been a no-smile-policy involved, but it presents passably, especially for work.
“This isn’t too bad,” he says as he hands over his own piece of plastic.
One look - shocked silence – an unexpected snort – and roaring laughter.
Vincent spreads his arms. “Hey, come on. You promised!” he laughs.
“Oh god,” giggles the man, “the hat really does it!”
“Tell me about it!”
“Wow! This is…” he takes the plastic closer and squints, “You really were trying to get everything in, weren’t you?”
Vincent laughs.
“Twenty gold bars were killed in the making of this robe. The staff is crazy. Is that embroidered?”
Vincent leans in conspicuously: “It’s the Vatican. Of course it is.”
The nurse’s laughs abade. He straightens up and turns the card over.
“You know, I have a very similar picture of myself. Only I was six years old and it was taken on carnival and I was very unhappily dressed up”
“Well,” Vincent slants his head, “You get three guesses as to how I felt”
“Well at least you’re smiling!”
Making his way over to the computer, he chuckles. “Crazy,” he says to himself, “I met the pope at work. And his unhappy government-ID-self. Urgh,” he grimaces as he sees Vincent’s X-ray pop up on the screen, “that’s an ugly fracture. Hey, I’m coming back in a second. I’ll go look if I can get you a painkiller,” he points to Vincent’s wrist, “that looks like it hurts”
He gives a relieved smile. “That’d be great, actually”
The door clatters shut and Vincent is thrust into silence again. Like the cut strings of a puppet, his limbs pretty much drop immediately.
The tension somewhat returns to his posture when he spots a familiar red zucchetto over thinning gray hair in the doorway. Like a lifeline, Thomas enters the small exam room and makes a beeline for Vincent.
He debates getting up, tumbling the few steps his way and crashing into Thomas’ embrace, but decides against it. He’s tired and besides, he’s made enough of a scene for today.
“Hey,” Thomas’ voice rumbles. Gently, he places his hand in Vincent’s hair and cards it through the soft locks. Without meaning to, Vincent immediately leans into the touch. It’s incredible, the effect that the man has on him. With utmost compassion, Thomas presses a discrete kiss into his hairline.
“I should have explained the whole thing to you before ordering you to a physician”
“It’s alright,” he whispers.
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry”
Thomas turns to sit down to Vincent’s right, but reverts when he notices his wince.
“Hey, why isn’t that in a cast yet?”
“Told you,” Vincent keeps his voice low, “they wanted to clear the insurance situation first”
Silence lingers between them, but Vincent is by far too spaced out to notice its extended length or Thomas’ wild eyes searching his face.
“Well, that’s bullshit,” he says, turning around, clearly looking for some personnel to question, but Vincent hooks his left pointer into a fold in his cassock and pulls him back.
“Don’t you dare,” he glares, “I’m not making a fool out of myself because my guard dog can’t help but make a scene” Vincent would have liked to accentuate his words with a stern look, but the two sentences of forceful language had drained him of his energy enough to foil those plans. Thomas sighs anyways and takes a seat to his left, instead of berating some poor nurse.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be,” Vincent smiles, looking up at his friend, “Besides, it’s kinda cute”
It takes a while, but Thomas does return the gesture.
“So what, we’re just going to wait until someone shows up?” he finally offers as Vincent buries his forehead into the bony shoulder: “Yeah. That was my plan.”
Thomas' hand comes back to Vincent’s hair. He sighs contently; The pain in his wrist not exactly forgotten but definitely dampened by the warmth that’s spreading throughout his chest.
“You know, I had to show someone my ID earlier”
“Oh what, that ugly thing from work?” Thomas chuckles.
“Yeah”
“And?”
“Got laughed at. But he showed me his and it wasn’t significantly better”
His cheek still resting against Thomas’ black fabric, his eyes locked to his face, to the crinkles around Thomas’ eyes as he smiles, he smells Thomas washing agent and can’t help but feel at peace. It’s definitely not a great day, there’s obviously some room for improvement available, but also maybe, just maybe, it’s not quite his worst yet.
Some time later, the nurse comes back with the doctor, for which Vincent briefly opens his eyes. By the way they deliberately ignore Vincent’s left side, he can tell they’re a little bit intimidated by Thomas’ cassock.
The doctor gives him some kind of painkiller whose name Vincent cannot recall even two minutes later, then quietly, gracefully sets his wrist and splints it. Vincent subsequently lets his head rest on Thomas' collarbone again.
His friend above him accepts something from the nurse, Vincent feels his arm jostle a little bit. A click, then a rhythmic sort of scratching. A clipboard, then, probably. Some form that Thomas is probably filling out for him. He can feel him gently humming, his ear leaning so close to his carotid. He lets his eyes rest, for now. It’s fine. Thomas can deal with the paperwork, for once. Thomas will do this for him. He’ll apologize in the morning and he will be excused.
Forgive me, he will say, as if the words haven’t lost all meaning with Thomas. Forgive me for letting you do your least favorite activity. Forgive me for being untaught about the healthcare system in Italy and the Vatican. Sorry, actually, for falling asleep on top of you at the– but Vincent truly loses consciousness before he can end this train of thought.