#conclave angst

Vincent tried not to think much about his past. Whenever nosy journalists or well meaning members of the Curia would ask him about his work in Afghanistan or Iraq Vincent would reply by talking about the love he had felt in those places - the way humanity seemed to be at its very best when the world around them fell apart. Vincent would never go into details.

As many things are in the church, Vincent’s PTSD was somewhat of an open secret. Many Swiss guards shared the uncomfortable experience of running into the papal rooms in the middle of the night after hearing the pope screaming as if being attacked - only to be met with a disheveled man with haunted eyes, hands shaking as he dismissed their offers of helping. The members of the Curia who were closest to the pope had slowly come to understand which subjects not to bring up around the Holy Father.

Vincent, to everyone’s dismay, refused to acknowledge his problems - constantly rejecting any mention of therapy or medication. “Compared to so many others,” he would say, “I’ve had an easy life.” He refused to listen when various members of his staff tried to remind him that serving God and the Church in active war zones most definitely counted as traumatic.

Vincent was an expert on hiding any and all feelings. He was the people’s pope - the sole man in charge of the Church - God’s representative on earth. He could not - would not - let anyone see him as weak. He had a job to do, and he had to do it well. If he was awoken by memories he’d tried to repress almost every night, then that was between him and God (and the guards who kept entering his room).

Vincent knew how to hide, how to keep secrets safe. He had plenty of experience in the field, after all. He would hide his trembling hands behind his back while walking through the Vatican. He would plan out each and every sermon well in advance, always standing hidden behind the altar as he prayed, refusing the offer of an altar boy holding the Bible for him - he would carry the weight himself, and the large book would hide his shaking hands and anxious eyes.

He couldn’t always hide. Once he had been walking through the gardens with Thomas when someone decided that the calm night needed some color, and had shot up a firework over Rome. The sound of the exploding lights had brought Vincent back to Baghdad, and in a moment of disorientation he had grabbed Thomas and thrown them both down on the ground - breathing heavily as he tried to find cover from what his brain registered as gunshots.

Two guards who had been walking a few meters behind them had rushed to their sides, thinking that the Holy Father had suffered a medical emergency or had tripped on something, and Thomas had to gently but firmly wave them away as Vincent started crawling away in fear when his panicked mind assumed the men with guns were going to hurt him.

It had taken Thomas several minutes and more than a few prayers for guidance before he managed to get Vincent to look at him, and the pope had not stopped shaking for the rest of the evening. Vincent had not allowed anyone else to tend to him after the incident, so Thomas was left to help the Holy Father change out of his dirt-stained white cassock and tend to the scrapes on his hands from the rough landing.

Vincent had refused - or been unable - to talk, yet Thomas had stayed by his side for the rest of the night, unable to do anything but watch as the figurehead of the Catholic Church broke down on the floor of the bathroom in the Casa Santa Martha.

Vincent couldn’t always hide - but he could pretend. After that night, Vincent resolutely refused to mention the incident. Whenever Thomas tried to get the Holy Father to open up, Vincent would change the subject or make his excuses to leave the room.

To absolutely everyone’s surprise, it was Tedesco who finally got through to him. Tedesco had been visiting the Vatican for Christmas celebrations, and had been keenly observing the new pope, taking long drags of his vape as he noted how the Holy Father seemed somehow even skinner and paler than he had been during the conclave that elected him.

Despite what some would assume, Tedesco didn’t disapprove of the pope entirely. He disagreed on many of the man’s moral and political views, but even he had been able to feel the Holy Spirit enter the Sistine Chapel as Vincent Benítez became Pope Innocent XIV. And he wouldn’t exactly be a good conservative Catholic if he didn’t believe the pope’s words were infallible.

So when he saw how Innocent seemed to flinch at every noise, jumping away from unexpected touches, and arrive at breakfast looking more tired than he had when retiring to bed - Tedesco understood that something was wrong.

One of the bishops in Venice, Johnathan Anderson, had been an American military officer for years before finding his true calling, and Tedesco had seen how the man would sometimes jump at seemingly nothing. He had asked the bishop about this once, mostly because he was bored out of his mind at a conference lunch, and Anderson had explained that his years in the army had left him with PTSD, that sometimes his body reacted to threats that weren’t really there, sometimes his brain created emergencies that didn’t exist, and that sometimes his mind would force him to relive his worst memories as if he was back in the war.

Tedesco - who had worked very hard for the reputation he had around the church - had cracked a slightly inappropriate joke in a mix of Italian and Latin, and then not mentioned the conversation further. However, if Tedesco’s office since then had been outfitted with an extra desk for anyone to occupy when in need to some peace and quiet, if one of the churches in Venice suddenly started holding support meetings for veterans of war, and if Anderson’s therapy sessions suddenly became a business expense, paid for by the church… well those were happy coincidences, and no one but Tedesco and God would have to know the truth.

Tedesco’s tipping point came when he watched the Holy Father in conversation with an old pilgrim, he was too far away to hear what the pair were speaking about, but close enough to see the Pope’s face turn as white as the vestments he wore, and how Benítez seemed to hastily excuse himself before walking away so quickly that Tedesco had to jog a few steps to be able to follow the man.

The Holy Father retreated into the men’s bathroom, and Tedesco felt a bit creepy as he followed the pope inside, but as he heard the unmistakable sound of reaching from the only occupied stall, he knew he had done the right thing.

He listened to the sounds of hyperventilation occasionally interrupted by gagging and the splattering of the Holy Fathers stomach contents as they met with toilet water. The sounds made him nauseous himself, but he breathed deeply and told himself that he was helping the Church by not abandoning the pope.

Tedesco stood silently at the door to the corridor, so that he would be able to intercept anyone entering the room - the Church did not need headlines about Pope Innocent throwing up in a public Vatican bathroom, God knows what the media would do with that.

It took almost ten minutes for the erratic breathing to calm, and for the toilet to flush one last time. The door to the stall clicked as the lock was opened, and out walked the Pope, his white cassock wrinkled from kneeling on the floor, his hands clenched tightly around the white zucchetto, presumably Benítez had removed it to prevent it from falling into the toilet. The Holy Father’s eyes were red, and his sweat-drenched hair stuck to his face. His eyes widened almost comedically when he noticed Tedesco staring him down.

“Your eminence?” Tedesco wanted to laugh at the tone in Benítez voice, a mix of suspicion, fear, and exhaustion. “Relax, your holiness. I won’t tell anyone, I was just making sure you didn’t drown in a toilet bowl. I fear our dean would consider becoming Protestant if he had to hold another conclave so soon.” At this the Pope’s shoulders seemed to relax a smidge, and a small pained smile appeared on his face.

“Oh well, I suppose I should be thanking you, then.” As Vincent spoke, he made his way to the line of sinks, splashing his face with water a few times before continuing, “But I really am fine now, Cardinal Tedesco.”

Tedesco didn’t even bother hiding his annoyance at the answer. “Fine? You think it’s fine for the Pope to be curled up in a public bathroom, puking his guts out because something reminded him of the past?”

Vincent went a few shades paler again, and Tedesco prayed that he hadn’t sent the Holy Father into another panic attack. Thankfully the man didn’t seem on the verge of breaking as he spoke. “How did you know?”

“I’m not stupid, your holiness. You have textbook PTSD. Like… actual textbok material, you could probably be a case study for medical students.” Vincent blinks at him, his mouth open in shock.

“Look, I’m sorry, I planned to do this in a nicer way, but unfortunately I genuinely don’t think you would understand me if I don’t speak clearly.” Tedesco stares into Benítez’s eyes, his expression a mix of annoyance and concern as he speaks, “Your Holiness… the way you are living, it’s not fine. You are suffering, and this way of living will kill you, sooner than later.” Tedesco sighs as he sees that the Pope doesn’t seem to understand how bad that would be. “And I know that you don’t really care about that. However, your premature death would make the church look bad, and even more so… it would kill your friends. Tommaso, Aldo, Ray, you would be making them suffer. Do you understand?”

Vincent finally looks shaken - Tedesco sees his adams apple bobble as he swallows nervously. Tedesco decides to press even further. “You are already making them suffer. I know you do not mean to, but they are terrified. I might not be friends with them, but I’ve known them for decades, and I can see how scared they are.” Vincent looks heartbroken, his face twisted in shock and grief. “They fear that they will find you dead one day, that a flashback will make you hurt yourself or that a panic attack will make your heart give out. Hell, we all see how thin you are - they… we’re all scared you will starve yourself to death.”

And then, to Tedesco’s surprise and horror, the Holy Father throws his arms around the cardinal and hugs him tightly. Tedesco doesn’t know what to do, yet when he feels the Pope’s shoulders shake slightly he lets his instincts take over and embraces the younger man.

They stand like that for a few minutes, and when they break apart Tedesco pretends not to see Benítez wiping tears off his face. “Thank you Goffredo, really.” Tedesco feels his face heat up at the Holy Father’s use of his first name, and immediately covers it up by taking a hit of his vape.

As they walk out of the bathroom, side by side, Vincent turns to Tedesco, a knowing smile on his face, “So, Cardinal Tedesco… you said ‘we’ are scared. Does that mean you worry about me?”

and then he left for vatican, the only indication of him going away being him giving the kids the heads up that he might not be able to host their dance get-togethers for quite some time.

i think of him waking up on the second day of his pontiff and realising, that he will never be allowed to dance with them again, not at least for a foreseeable future.

i think of children realising the kind priest who danced with them every wednesday got elected as a pope and i think of the parents having to explain to them, that there will be some changes now. i think about the teens trying to come up with ways to keep their community strong, even without their leader. i think of them taking over the organising, trying to stay strong, as he always taught them.

i think of them taking a photo together sometime later and sending it to him, without a return adress, for they didnt expect a reply.

i think of ray going through the pope's mail and almost casting it aside, but something in the vagueness of the letter, combined with the post stamps indicating it was sent from baghdad, make him open it. he doesn't even have to read the letter - those faces are familiar to him, he sees them every day on the pope's desk, the worn photo of vincent surrounded by the group framed and positioned right beside his monitor.

i think of ray asking lawrence to clear out the evening and the following morning for him, before he hands him the letter - he guesses the older might need that.

i think of him sending sister agnes to him, knowing that only her could probably understand him, as the one who also got plucked out of her home to serve in vatican.

i think of vincent being so bold with everything else, with breaking all the other rules, but the lack of community to dance with is what is slowly killing him inside despite all the other efforts to make him comfortable. i think of all his friends wondering what is wrong, what they could do, but there is nothing - they couldn't just fly him out back home, after all and they couldn't make him feel at home fully either.