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By the time Vincent finally made his way back to his room that night, it was nearing midnight. Not that his duties had kept him out so late - no, thankfully he’d had a fairly light day, but long, contemplative strolls in the gardens tended to turn into long, contemplative talks whenever he bumped into another late night wanderer. Tonight it had been Janusz, who had been unusually grave while the two of them walked side by side. The Archbishop was a gentle soul at heart, a sensitive fellow in a way that was rare around here. But Vincent appreciated his sincerity, and they’d both easily shed some tears together while they spoke quietly in the cooler shade of night.
It was summer, and the days were long. The only time it felt safe to venture outside was when the sun was on its way down, and even then the warmth lingered in the air, so much so that it was hard to tell how late it had gotten.
Vincent opened his door quietly, more from force of habit since nobody lived near enough to him to be disturbed - but he was glad he had, because he realised immediately that Ray had once again broken into his apartment.
He lay on top of Vincent’s covers, barefoot and in nothing but his trousers. There was gauze taped to several spots on his torso, and purplish bruises bloomed underneath those spots, telling a story about yet another silent danger that the man had managed to take care of.
For him.
Vincent couldn’t help but stare at him as he lay there. Ray’s body was spare and lean - the body of a person who was perpetually in motion. And while the passage of time had doubtlessly softened the wiry lines of his frame, there was still a strength to the man, a coiled tension to him, even in repose. Even without the sharpness of his youth, he looked like a man who was ready to throw a punch, though perhaps not recover from one as quickly as he used to.
Vincent felt a pang of guilt at the realisation that Ray must have fallen asleep waiting for him, hoping for the touch of a caring hand after whatever gruelling ordeal he’d been put through today.
The bed dipped as Vincent sat down next to him, and the movement made Ray stir, blinking slowly into wakefulness. Vincent reached out and stroked along his head, smoothing down his hair. Ray hummed appreciatively, and the sound made a curl of something warm stir in Vincent’s chest. He’d been so worried about staying here. About the loneliness that was in store for him, the utter isolation of his elevation.
He could never have imagined the gift of this quiet intimacy, the shedding of Ray’s usual careful layers - not just the shirt, but the vulnerability of him. In here, Ray looked older. Tired in a way none of them ever let show. Trust like his was hard won in a place like this.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to patch you up,” said Vincent.
“I was the one who broke in,” said Ray, huffing out a laugh, “I would have gone home, but… here was closer.”
Vincent chuckled at that. He traced along the back of Ray’s head, trailing along soft grey hair until skin met skin, and felt the raised line of an old scar.
“From a training exercise, right?” said Vincent, recalling the story Ray had told him, tongue loosened from exhaustion and the whiskey glass in his hand.
“Right,” said Ray, “you remembered.”
“I will remember this forever, Raymond. If I had grandchildren I would tell them about the man who navigated the Irish countryside for days with nothing but the clothes on his back only to get attacked by a badger.”
Ray’s answering laugh was quieter, this time - not unenthusiastic, but his fatigue was evident. Vincent traced lower, running the pad of a finger across a light purplish gouge - this one had been one of his own, and he felt a surge of pride to see that it had healed so well, and a strange, possessive warmth to see that mark there on Ray’s skin.
“Did a good job with that one,” said Ray softly, “haven’t had a dud yet. That’s got to count for something.”
Vincent nodded, running his fingers up and down the scar’s length. Memorising the feel of it.
“What about yours?”
Ray was looking up at him now, his eyes squinting slightly - he must have taken his glasses off at some point.
“What do you mean?” said Vincent.
“Well, I think you could just about draw a map of me from memory now,” said Ray, his cheeks reddening slightly, “but you… all I know about you is your ear.”
Vincent felt his own face heat up at the implication.
“You mean you want me to… you want to see…”
Ray smiled up at him shyly.
“I very much would.”
It hadn’t occurred to Vincent at all that he might disrobe in front of Ray in any way. He’d never had a problem with nudity from other people - while modesty was always a priority for him, it hadn’t always been a possibility in situations where life or death was called into question, and when it came to other people, the sight of the human body didn’t bother him at all.
Himself, on the other hand… that was an entirely different question.
“I…”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” said Ray quickly, but the sting of rejection was plain in his voice.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” said Vincent, “I just… I’ve never… not for anything that wasn’t related to being in hospital.”
Regardless, his hands seemed to move of their own accord, undoing the buttons of his cassock. He worked clumsily, and realised that his hands were trembling.
Ray eased himself up into a sitting position with a low groan of pain, rubbing at his eyes to clear the fatigue from himself. He shook off his sleep, then gently took Vincent’s hands in his own.
“I could help you with that, your Holiness,” he said softly.
Vincent froze, feeling himself as if on some precipice he hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t been able to prepare himself for. Nevertheless, he nodded his assent.
He watched Ray undress him as if from behind a pane of glass, fascinated by the deftness of him, the surety of his movements. When Ray shifted so that he could reach for his fascia, the movement startled him - only for a moment, leaving him blushing and embarrassed.
Ray moved much more slowly after that, broadcasting his actions clearly, anticipating them before he acted. By the time he made his way down to his shirt, Vincent was sweating.
And then Ray laughed.
Vincent felt the sting of it far more keenly than he would have ever imagined. Shame engulfed his face in heat, and he turned away with a prickling sensation behind his eyes.
Vanity. The embarrassment was from vanity, he knew, and yet he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by it.
“Where on earth did you get that from?”
There was still laughter in Ray’s voice. It took Vincent several moments to look down, and realise what he’d been laughing at.
He’d opted for a t-shirt under his cassock today, because of the relentless heat. It was a bootleg Looney Tunes shirt, with an appallingly drawn Bugs Bunny smoking a cigarette. A dizzying, hysterical relief overcame him and he began to shake with laughter.
“I’ve had it for years,” he spluttered, “they sent it with the rest of my things from Kabul-”
The absurdity of the situation strengthened him, and he pulled the shirt up over his head, tossing it aside and smiling at Ray.
Ray smiled at him with a delighted kind of fondness. He reached forward and smoothed Vincent’s hair back down, and Vincent found himself ducking his head into the touch.
He took Ray’s hand in his own and placed it on his shoulder, where there was a patch of mottled skin, scorched and abraded from the same bomb that had taken his hearing on that side. He felt the strange, muted feeling of Ray’s fingertips exploring the area, the Monsignor’s face reverent as he traced the outlines of the shape.
“That’s the worst of them,” said Vincent, “I don’t really have anything else as impressive as your battle scars.”
“Who takes your confession, your Holiness? You’ll have to make sure you add lying to your list.”
Vincent opened his mouth to respond, but then Ray trailed his fingers down his front, his touch feathery-light, enough to make him shiver.
“Appendix surgery,” he said softly, tapping the little stripe at his side.
Vincent nodded, unable to find any words to reply with.
“That’s one of mine,” said Ray, sounding a little sad as he took Vincent’s arm in his hands, smoothing his thumb over the small scar on his forearm, from the bullet he’d been grazed by. It was still freshly healed, mottled and purple, though it had healed far better than most of the other injuries he’d had in his life.
“A tally mark for when you saved my life,” said Vincent, “I’m only sorry that you’ve had to bear the rest of them yourself.”
Ray still cradled his arm in his hands. He traced the other wounds there, tiny white threads and little pockmarks from shrapnel, from blades, burns, all manner of makeshift weapons.
He raised Vincent’s hand to his lips and kissed it, blessing knuckles marked by jagged white gouges.
“I broke my hand getting those,” said Vincent.
“I hope whoever it was deserved it,” said Ray.
“He did, God forgive me. It was worth it.”
Ray kissed the scar on his shoulder too - it felt strange through the nerve damage and mottled tissue. It tickled. Then he went around Vincent and sat at his back, splaying his palms across Vincent’s shoulder blades.
Vincent heard him inhale sharply, and he himself tensed, ducking his head away from the other man.
He felt warm fingers trace a long line across his back. Once, twice, three times.
“Do you want to talk about these ones?” said Ray quietly.
“No.”
“Alright.”
Instead, he felt Ray shuffle closer. Felt rough hands on his skin, snaking around his middle, felt the delicious warmth of Ray’s chest pressed to his back, the pleasant pressure as his chin rested on his shoulder.
Vincent had touched plenty - he’d held hands, steadied arms, carried and supported his way through his ministry, but he’d never felt closeness quite like this. He was aware of Ray’s presence in a way he’d never experienced, aware of the pressure of him, the warmth of him, the shape of his hands and the way his soft flesh gave way to his touch. The feeling was intoxicating. He could stay this way forever, if he wanted.
Ray’s weight grew heavier against him, and he remembered that the man was exhausted. Wounded, and for his sake.
“Ray?” he said, his voice tentative in the silence.
“Mmm.”
It occurred to him that Ray was likely using him as a pillow.
“We could - if you wanted…”
“Mmm?”
Vincent smiled to himself. Ray already sounded halfway to sleep. Sweet thing.
“We should, I mean, continue this lying down, perhaps.”
“Mmm.”
Without further fuss, Ray pulled the both of them over onto their sides, though he grunted quietly in pain as he jostled something that hurt. With a little wriggling around, they fit themselves together as comfortably as possible, with Ray’s nose nuzzled into the nape of his neck.
Vincent wanted nothing more than to luxuriate in the feeling. He could already feel Ray’s breathing slow - and what a treat that was, what a joy, to be able to bask in the sensation of another’s breath, to feel the exact moment where the tension began to drain from his weary body.
“This is wonderful,” he whispered aloud.
Ray’s lips moved against his skin, speaking too quietly for him to hear. But the feeling of it was wonderful.