a/n: I wrote this a couple of days ago (namely before that thing we don't talk about happened) and since it was sort of a request and it's like a day after Valentine's day I thought I'd just post it. I tried to edit it so it's kind of decent but Im not at my best Frary game atm and I really don't know if I'll ever be again. *sigh*

Tittle from Turning page by Sleeping at last. That song gives me vicious Frary feels and those make me sad.

Nothing prepared me for
What the privilege of being yours would do

If I had only felt the warmth within your touch [...]
Well I would have known
What I was living for

.

Her heels slam into the ground as she picks up her skirts; running, because walking isn't enough, because she can't bear one more minute spent outside of his arms.

And then she's there, and his lips are on hers, and it feels like she can finally inhale after months without breathing. She hasn't forgotten, by God if she could ever forget this feeling, regardless of how much she cried herself to sleep begging it to go away because she would never have it again. The warmth of his lips, the surety of his hands on her waist. And she can have this now. The heavy piece of paper that let her know it is still folded carefully in her hand. She's too overwhelmed to tell him, so she shows him what she means instead.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

He opens the letter at once, looking baffled by its contents.

"It's blank," he says, and she laughs- because nothing has ever been so full of meaning before, "it's nothing."

She breathes in, finally noticing the tears that are begging to wash down from her eyes.

"She let me decide," she can't help her hand caressing his cheek, her fingers becoming reacquainted with the planes of his beautiful face, the roughness of his beard. "It's odd, isn't it? That your mother was the one to show me what was truly in my heart. You." Her fingertips grasp the lapels of his doublet, feeling he's still too far away. "It's you. It's always been you."

She feels the roughness of his fingertips on her cheek and closes her eyes at the feeling, her own fingers running through the curls at the nape of his neck. Nothing exists but each other in this moment.

"Does this mean you'll marry me?"

There's nothing she's ever wanted more.

"Yes."

And then she's kissing him again, and the weight on her shoulder is just a tad lighter, and her fears about England disappear if merely for a second. She tastes his lips and feels the warmth of his tongue as it licks the seam of her lips, begging for entrance to her mouth which she gladly complies. How could she ever live without this? His hands come to rest on her waist, pulling her body closer and she breathes him in, the spices and the sweat and just him. When she pulls away, the first tear finally spills down her cheek.

It takes her a second to open her eyes. His thumb runs over her bottom lip, spreading the moisture elsewhere, and she feels so very delicate, and at the same time never as strong as when he is by her side. He gives her strength to do the right thing.

"We must protect Sebastian," she says, already feeling the distance open between them, and hurting because it doesn't hurt more. She feels for him, she does. "There are those…who will punish him, for reaching for the throne." Her fault, it's on her.

Her hand never leaves his shoulder as she waits merely a second for his answer, needing the certainty that his closeness brings.

"Of course," he tells her, running the back of his finger down her cheek, wiping the tears away. "I'll make sure of it." His thumb brushes her chin and a tenderness she has missed acutely radiates from his eyes. She's amazed at him, like she was when they were younger and she thinks maybe that feeling will never change.

Their lips meet again, demanding, making up for lost time, and goose bumps shimmer across her body when he digs his fingers into her hair. Somewhere behind them is the chatter of people but she can't care, not when he's here after so long and moaning into her mouth-

"I see you've seen reason."

They step apart at once, and she covers her mouth to hide the tell-tale moisture on her lips, the redness caused by his kisses.

"Mother."

"Shall I tell the King the right wedding is in order?" Her mother asks in her usual tone, somewhere between mocking and caring, and she's too drunk on Francis and the fact that he's holding on to her hand to care of how utterly unqueenly she might look.

"Thank you," Francis tells her, "but we will give him the good news ourselves." He bows his head towards her mother, "now, if you'll excuse us."

She pointedly ignores her mother's raised eyebrows and follows Francis blindly, wherever he is taking her. She thinks she hears something about the wedding night being tomorrow behind their backs but she can't be sure, and the Francis is pulling her after him rather than guiding her, and she laughs and tries to catch up.

He ends up pulling her into the corner of a deserted hallway and his mouth is hot on her neck then, his hands unyielding as he runs them down her back, the feel of them making her lower stomach pool with heat.

"Francis!" she gasps as he sucks on a particularly sensitive spot beneath her ear, "someone will see. And your father-"

"I'll send a page later, now I've missed you," and she doesn't have it in her to fight him, because she, too, has missed nothing more than the feel of him beneath her hands and the taste of him beneath her lips.

They make their way to his room, kissing in every isolated corner and their hands brushing over the clothes with impatience.

But entering his chamber again feels like cold water.

She hasn't really been here since that morning before they found Aylee. She's avoided it like the plague, and it's not that different for the memories would have eaten her alive. The spot where they used to feed each other breakfast in front of the fire those first few mornings, the bed where she knew passion for the first time…it would have been too much, broken her resolve before she had quite managed to build it.

Nothing smells like him anymore, and it aches; his shirts are all tucked away and his covers are no longer strewn around on chaises.

She can feel the heat of him as he steps behind her, his hands running down her shoulders, and it eases her, like the past few weeks without him were a night that has passed and she no longer has to relieve. She sighs as his hand settle on her hips and his lips trace a path on her neck. She closes her eyes, gives herself over to the feeling. She wants him to touch her, to fill all those spaces where his absence still stings.

"Let me make love to you," he breathes, and she can only turn around and answer him without words, bringing his mouth down to hers urgently. It feels like coming alive after being asleep for so long.

His finger pull at her dress' laces, his fingers untying them quickly so that it falls to the floor in a heap of cream fabric and if it wasn't for his arms she would stumble upon it. She undoes the belts of his doublet, letting it fall to the floor and join her dress and all the time they're kissing, hot open mouths. It's all too much and not enough, the way he holds her jaw, the brush of his nose along her neck, the way he pushes her onto the bed and climbs on top of her, his knee wedging between her thighs.

She makes quick work of his black shirt, and his hand drag over the silky fabric of her shift, down her stomach and thighs and hips, and it's a wonder she can still breathe. He kisses her fervently, bringing a hand up under her shift to gently cup her breast.

"I missed you, God I missed you," she whispers against him, letting her warm breath breeze over the bare flesh of his shoulders. It all moves faster after that.

She can feel his breath against her center, and she gasps when his stubble brushes against the tender skin of the inside of her thighs. And then his tongue and his lips are on her, circling her and sinking into her and he makes her come undone in minutes. When he crawls up her body to kiss her she can taste her own desire in his lips.

He kneels and takes care of his pants himself, and she's too overwhelmed by pleasure to think of anything more than that she wants to kiss every inch of his body, suck on his hip bones and taste the sweat off his chest.

She brings him down to her again, runs her hand down his chest and takes him gently in her palm. She remembers what he likes, what used to make him melt even when she knew next to nothing of this. He bucks against her hands and, gasping, takes her wrists and pushes her up on the bed, laying her down in front of him.

He holds her just so, his fingers playing notes on the string of her spine. His hands run up her thighs, opening them and it sends tremors directly to her center. Her hands against his naked back feelings how his ribs expand with each breath he takes and how he is here, and tomorrow she will be his, in the eyes of everyone and not just between each other. They'll belong to each other and they'll be together at last and she could sob with the knowledge of it.

And how did she ever think she could have this with anyone else?

And then he's sinking into her, and it's slow and they're both quiet, their noses and forehead meet and they share the same breath between their mouths. She puts her legs around his waist for leverage and they kiss when they can, meeting in the middle, lazy and all tongues and biting lips. It doesn't last that long, too wound up in each other, and suddenly she's crying out and arching against him, the hand that's not holding his twisting the sheets.

He's not far behind her, thrusts once, twice more, before spilling inside of her. She can feel the warmth of his seed and the heat radiating off their bodies and she can barely distinguish his pulse from hers. She pushes his sweaty curls away from his face, marveling at this man in front of her. Her Francis. Her husband, soon enough. He kisses her as he pulls away gently and lays down at her side, his eyes never leaving her. It's minutes or hours that go by, as they catch their breath, as the sweat cools off their bodies and something other than desire fills their minds.

"Mary…" He sighs. He traces her features with the tip of his finger, the scope of her brow, the plane of her nose, the flush of her cheeks. "We have so much to talk about."

"Yes, we do," she tells him, and she's getting choked up. There's a pressure at the back of her throat and she can tell her hears it. His fingers sinking into her hair and his thumb caressing her cheek. "Everything I put you through," she starts, covering his hand with her own, drawing strength from him, like always. "Francis, I…I'm so sorry, if I'd thought there was another way-"

"You could have trusted me," he says, but he doesn't sound angry. "You could have let me decide."

"I couldn't have borne losing you, even the possibility of it…" It's there, in her words, please, please forgive me.

"It was my life," he tells her firmly.

"I'll never have the words to apologize for the amount of pain I put you through, but you must know I did it out of love. I love you," she tells him, and realizes the words don't leave her lips often enough even if they are always on her mind. She searches his eyes for the reassurance she craves, that she hasn't lost his love, after everything she did.

"I know what you believed to be true." And maybe he sounds angry now, but his fingers are still ever so tender of her skin.

She traces the bruise under his eye, the fainter marks of exhaustion on his face and it makes her chest hurt. She did this.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, "I'm so sorry."

"It's behind us now."

He kisses her forehead gently, and she could cry with relief as he brings her closer, his arms circling her. She lays her head down on his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart and thanks heaven that she'll never have to hear it stop.

He'd said he didn't want to look as if he was waiting to reclaim his throne, or anything else that belonged to his brother, but he was wrong, even if she married bash she would have always belonged to him.

"I couldn't sleep well withouth you," she tells him a few moment later, when they've moved under the covers and her hair no longer sticks to her cheeks. It's true. She used to sleep with one of her ladies when she was a girl, but since moving to the convent and coming back she's spent her nights alone, except for those few beautiful nights she spent between his arms. And still, when she was alone once more, she found out how much harder sleep was to achieve. How she ached with loneliness.

"How so?" he askes, his voice raspier, and when she looks up she recognizes the sleep he's figting off.

"I missed you," she tells him simply, and kisses his chest.

"How much?" He runs his fingertips up and down her bare shoulder.

"I think I've already showed you how much," she teases him with, and it's so jarringly strange and at the strange time so known to her, to be laying in bed with thi man she loves mroe than anything and teasing him, joking with hi, when she nearly ruined both of their lives and he hasn't mentioned it, not once.

Her smile fades away and soon after his does as well. And then it's as if he knows what she's thinking, like he always could.

"We've been apart for months, how-"

"How can we lay here and feel no time has passed?" he interrupts her, looking more awake than ever now, his eyes tender as he gazes at her.

"How do we let it all go?" she asks him, wanting nothing more than to forget, the prophecy, her engagement to Bash, the pain in his eyes and everything she set into motion...All the time they were apart, and everything that happened to her that he doesn't know about. And she can't help but wonder where he was, what he did a there were others, other women who kissed his lips or touched his body and how she can't fault him for it, how if it wasnt for a twist of fate she'd be married to another now.}

He brushes his thumb over his brow, soothing her worry lines.

"We cant undo the past, " he tells her and she knows, even as he heart sinks. "But we can start our lives together free of its pain.

"How? Everything I did-"

"I forgot about the second you were in my ams again," he says, his thumb on her cheek, an she's nver loved him more. "Let's not speak of it. Let's put it behind us and leave it there, my love."

She wants to trust him. She does.

The sun is barely rising when he steps out of the bed, and with her leep so ligt and the fire dead, she's awake the very second, the side of her body cold. She watches him as he finds his breeches and steps into them, finding his black shirt next and pult over his head.

"Where are you going?" she asks throatily, startling him. But he still smiles the minut he sets eyes on her head peeking out from the duvets.

"I have matters to tend to." He pulls on his doublet and doesn't bother to tie its belts again. He walks to her on the bed, leans down and kisses her softly. His curls tickle her forehead.

"I'll see you tonight, wife."

A laugh bubbles up from her lips. A real laugh, resounding in her chest and crinkling her eyes with mirth, not the giggles at Bash's insinuations, and it scares her, it does, that she was so close to not knowing what true happiness would have been like. But now it's here, and she's never letting it get away.

"I'll see you tonight," she tells him, and time can't move fast enough.