CINQUANTE
For my fellow Fanforum Fraries on the occasion of their 50th thread.

He stirs, slowly emerging from sleep. Reclining against the head of the bed, he feels the stiffness in his back, in his neck – the pinch of pain in his right shoulder – and he feels the weight of her in his arms, her breaths puffing out warm and even against his chest.

He doesn't move.

His eyes open and the morning sunlight streaming through the windows surprises him. Blinking against its assault, he feels his eyelids droop once more as they hope to revisit their previous state of slumber.

He nearly groans but catches it in his throat – he wasn't supposed to fall asleep.

His finger begins its ritual trace up and down her arm, his eyes open but unfocused.

Un. Deux. Trois.

It has been nearly three weeks since she had shown up at his door, not having slept and full of latent fear for his life after the siege. Three weeks of his father's absence. Three weeks of bliss.

Only later that afternoon, as dusk began to fall upon the castle and its rooms, did she share what had nearly happened with the Count – of what had nearly happened with Kenna. Twice.

She had stammered, unsure of how to meet his eyes and of how to convey her fears. Beautifully flushed in the newness of their own union, he found her uncharacteristically timid as she attempted to explain her choice to give herself to him.

They had tarried in the fading light, taking advantage of how Catherine had granted most of the staff a day off after all that had transpired. Shortly before the evening meal, she had slipped from his rooms to bathe and dress. He had noticed the slight limp in her gait as the soreness set in, and he somehow sensed both a reluctance to leave and her desire to flee from his presence. Perhaps her retreat had been in anticipation of shame's onslaught at her actions.

He gazes at the bedsheet which now hardly covers her nakedness and feels the corners of his mouth twitch in their upward tug. What was once so unfamiliar – so new – is now so completely known. His finger rises to brush against her soft flesh, continuing in its daily pattern.

Once, then again.

Neuf. Dix. Onze.

And there was no shame to be had, something revealed later that night as she once more crept into his rooms, frightened. Her nightmares had left her trembling and she had not hesitated to come to him. He had gathered her gently into his arms and she had clung tightly to his frame as her heart slowed its rapid rhythm and her trepidation stilled.

Nothing could ever compare to being needed by her.

He had comforted her as best he knew, helping her find solace in his reassurance and in his touch. She had turned to him, finally calm, drowsy – the fatigue heavy in her eyes and dripping in her words.

"Wake me before dawn?"

He knew her concern, with others readily being able to call her virtue into question. His guards and page surely wouldn't utter a word, their loyalty being to the dauphin – and especially as his father was away. The rest of the staff, however slim, would need to remain unaware of her wandering to his rooms in the black of night.

Nodding, he placed a fleeting kiss upon her mouth and she settled in at his side, finally finding the rest her body sought.

"I'll wake you."

And, so, their routine began.

No doubt exists in his mind that she will be startled by the day's emerging brightness, as he had been – but he finds he doesn't care. He wants to linger here.

Dix-huit. Dix-neuf. Vingt.

As their trysts became nightly in nature, Francis had fought the urge to never be apart from this lovely creature who so firmly held his heart in her small hands.

They spent afternoons walking in the gardens and by the lakeside; they saw the country on horseback, racing to one point or another; and they lost several hours in the library, honing their understanding of strategy and studying each other as they commanded their pieces.

His mother had openly disapproved of the number of daylight hours they spent together, but he figured she would learn to accept the situation given sufficient time. She must.

For this breathtaking creature, this nymph curled into him with milky skin and amber depths for eyes, has so quickly become his world.

His knowledge of her has emerged alongside his craving to be with her, to experience that precious stillness he recognizes he has never known with any other woman. His hunger for her has become insatiable.

And, so, each night – in order to protect her until she is fully his to protect – he finds himself awake with her tucked securely under the wing of his arm, situated against and trussed by the bed at his back. At the sound of the guard's change, he begins the light, gentle stroking of her arm that always leads to her waking.

Vingt-cinq. Vingt-six. Vingt-sept.

Courtiers had flocked him every time he appeared downstairs in his father's absence. One morning, his presence had been required in the throne room. He had tried to dismiss Mary to find her ladies, thinking she would better enjoy her time with them, but she wanted to stay with him. It had rendered him nearly speechless the way she had no desire but to be at his side.

Even the most cold-hearted of the courtiers had thawed in the glow of her warmth. They saw her clear intent to claim the French as her own people and they clamored for an audience with her. She certainly had a way of winning men.

Naturally, he knows this better than anyone. His initial reluctance toward her upon her return to Court rises in memory at times. On more than one occasion, he has found himself taken aback by her ability to change him so vastly in such a short time – and effortlessly, at that.

The dawning realization of just how well-matched they are, how complementary in every way, increases the fervor with which he pursues her and his desire to know her even more.

She is his equal, if not his better. Inescapable. Not that he could ever want to escape.

His finger rises and falls, the friction of so many strokes beginning to create heat against her skin. Trente-deux. Her sleep must be deeper than what he has previously observed, as she has lain in the same place and not been wakened halfway through the night for the first time in weeks. She usually wakes before he arrives at trente.

Trente-trois. Trente-quatre. Trente-cinq.

Once, he wakened her from her sleep and she had blushed shyly as she took in her surroundings, remembering where she was. Amusing as it had been, his curiosity had been whetted. She haltingly spoke to him of her dreams. Blissful things rather than the nightmares of the previous week.

She shared images of their eventual marriage, in all of its sweetness; of blonde-haired and blue-eyed children, tottering around the castle and causing mischief; of returning to Scotland and being welcomed warmly by the people she no longer remembers.

He had surprised her then by sharing his own hopes for their marriage, for their countries – of how the fabric of his dreams was woven with the simple joys and domesticities of husband and wife, and of raven-haired, amber-eyed little ones to whom he couldn't utter the word 'no.' The fire which kindled itself in her eyes did not escape his notice.

The wee hours had crept upon them quietly, the sky pinking on the horizon, when they realized the hour. Mary barely had the opportunity to slip into her own rooms before her lady's maid sought to wake her.

They had been cautious since, keeping conversation for the day or for the moments before they would climb between the bedsheets and lose themselves in one another. It had become his own game to number the strokes of his fingers against her skin before her eyes labored to open.

And, until this last night, they had been successful in their caution.

Perhaps the accumulated lack of sleep had finally caught up to him. Instead of his usual wakefulness, sleep had overtaken him and now they both would wake to the emerging day rather than to the ink of night. There was now very little chance she might return to her rooms unnoticed.

Unfortunate, indeed. Since his father's return several days prior, they had needed to exercise additional care in returning Mary to her rooms. The castle bustled and hummed with the reappearance of the many men and women who had been given leave in the king's absence – and who, in turn, had unknowingly given Francis and Mary the unexpected freedom to come and go as they pleased.

He frowns, wrinkling his brow as he contemplates his father. There must be a way to ensure his marriage to Mary, to hasten the decisions he refused to make – to trick him, if need be.

It wouldn't be long before others would notice the Queen never slept a full night in her rooms. A tricky matter, certainly. But he also can't bear the thought that she might need to always sleep in her rooms.

His greatest desire is to wake like this each day – to feel the settledness and the permanence of their union. After pushing against her pull for so long, no question now remains in his mind as to what holds the most value in his heart.

She does.

Eyes darting to the fire, they glaze over as he stares into the flames.

Quarante. Quarante et un. Quarante-deux.

She had never known her father. He had passed into the presence of God when she had but days to her life. Her memories of Scotland had faded with her ten years in France.

Alone. Her whole life, she had been alone in her struggles.

He steels himself, keeping his touch upon her arm light and teasing as his jaw sets itself firmly.

Never again.

"Do you remember what I told you?" he had asked one night after she revealed her sorrow. When she had looked at him questioningly, he replied, "I am committed to you. Fully committed and by your side. I will not leave you alone, Mary."

His fervency to assure her of his devotion – his dedication to her never being alone in life again – had led to one of their sweetest nights together. A true intimacy.

As long as he has a say in the matter, he vows she will never have to be alone again.

Quarante-trois. Quarante-quatre. Quarante-cinq.

He can barely restrain the laughter that bubbles in his chest, recalling her reaction as she stepped across the threshold of his rooms the night before.

"The bed!" she had gasped. "Why is it in the middle of the room?"

"They move it for the winter, so I can be closer to the fire," he had responded, unconcerned.

It had been difficult to refrain from laughter then, as well. Her mouth had made a silent "O" and she had gawked wide-eyed at the bed's new location.

"But what if someone comes in the door while we … ?" Her voice had drifted and the movement of her eyes from the door to the bed frame accented her question.

He had wasted no time in sweeping her off of the floor and moving toward the object of discussion, a smirk settling into the lines of his face.

"I don't really care," he had answered cavalierly. Setting her down, he began to remove her shoes, a teasing affection in his words.

"I'm more concerned that you are warm enough while you sleep."

Apparently, he hadn't been too concerned with her warmth as he deftly removed her nightdress and allowed his hands to roam freely along her ribcage.

Quarante-six. Quarante-sept. Quarante-huit.

How can he possibly hold onto this moment? The serene grace of being with this woman?

His mind grasps for a way, once more grappling with how to defy his father and force his hand. Perhaps he could express that his desire to be married to Mary had shifted. Perhaps he could reassure his father of the Scottish alliance and its importance in standing against England and her hunger for the lands of others. Perhaps …

Her body begins to stir, interrupting his thoughts. He'll need to explain himself, his failure to keep to their arrangement.

Quarante-neuf.

His eyes return to her, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair. He smiles as his finger flits up her arm one last time, joining the others in burying themselves amongst the dark waves.

Cinquante.

"It's morning."

"I know."

He can't help but smile at the knowledge she has but a moment to shake off sleep before she realizes it is indeed morning and her body still resides next to his.

Sure enough, she bolts upright, panicked and clutching the bedsheet to her chest. But his attempts at distracting her are successful and her shrieks fill the air. His fingers tease and he takes pleasure in the irrepressible joy that floods her countenance.

He could grow accustomed to having her with him in the morning.

"Do you think we're being too reckless?" Her face belies the seriousness of her inquiry, but it does not deter him. He moves his mouth from her neck to her stomach, his whiskers undoubtedly tickling her skin – telling her what he knows to be true. The only truth that matters, really.

"I'm yours; you are mine."

His lips find her abdomen. His mind settles on the perhaps that might actually succeed in persuading his father to let them marry. "I hope you're pregnant."

"Francis!" The hiss in her voice is undeniable, indicating she thinks she should be offended by such a brazen statement. But he is not fooled, detecting something else in how she speaks his name and in the slight quirk of her brow. He suspects she finds the idea as intriguing as he does.

"You don't think what we're doing is wrong, as we are not wed yet?" she asks, her serious tone becoming playful.

Nothing about this can be wrong, he decides, as he raises her gently to meet him. He determines not to let his gaze drop from hers. He wants this. He wants her. His focus turns to their hopes for life together and on settling his lips at the base of her neck just below her ear. She shivers, the sensation still new to her.

And yet, he knows what she has risked to be here with him – even though they are betrothed. That she has let him know her, and that there dwells in him a calm at being known by her, is not lost on him.

He resolves to talk to his father. He must marry this girl – even if he must reach cinquante every morning to rouse her.

Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing but the idea behind the story itself. Characters and show framework for "Reign" belong to CW/CBS and the lovely Laurie McCarthy.

Special Thanks: to kayeberrie for her beautiful post; to Rachel for her rationale behind the bed moving; to Laura for her estimation of time between 1x07 and 1x08, and for being my first beta (and a lovely one at that)!

Do you ship Frary? Come join us over at the Reign board on Fanforum! We're all slightly obsessed (some moreso than others), have ship-loads of fun, and regularly engage in revelry and mayhem concerning Francis and Mary. We'd love to see you there!