Author's Note: I must admit, it's been 15 years since I last felt compelled to write fanfiction of any kind, but I've found myself sucked into the CW's "Reign" and haven't been able to force this idea out of my head over the last few days. The result, I wrote it out in the hope that I can get past it and onto my master's thesis (which is what I should be writing). It's possible I'll never have another story to write or add to this archive, but I felt like I should share because I've become an avid lurker of several Reign and Frary forums.

Obviously, I own no part of "Reign," but am grateful for the excellent characters and a chance to play with their stories.

This is a one-off, set between the end of 1x03 (Kissed) and what I envision as the beginning of 1x04 (Hearts and Minds). I just found myself sitting up at night, wandering through the entire development of Mary and Francis, and particularly gravitating toward his reaction post-kiss in 1x03. That's all. Enjoy!

It had only been a matter of weeks since Mary had returned to French Court. Weeks. It had only taken a matter of weeks to completely upend every resolution he had spent the last seven years building.

Since she had been taken to the convent seven years ago, Francis had begun to understand his father's shallow commitment to Scotland and to Mary. He knew it was only a matter of convenience. He knew it was only a matter of time before another alliance could be secured against the English.

And, so, he had steeled himself for the inevitable. He did not want the marriage his parents had, rooted in his father's desire never to follow his heart when it came to politics. Francis had refused to entertain thoughts of Mary since she left for the convent. Why would he? She was just a girl, and their engagement ending in marriage was extremely unlikely. He wanted to be sure that his heart was kept for whoever would actually be his bride – it was the only means of being sure that she did not become embittered and scheming like his own mother.

Yet, here he was pacing in his rooms, frantically trying to piece together how things became so complicated so quickly.

It was that one question she had asked him – that had to be it! Mary should know that perhaps the only reason they would have ever had chance to meet was because she was a queen and he was the future king of France. If she was just a girl and not a queen and he was just a boy and not intended to rule …

But she was beautiful. And clever. And wildly unpredictable. And she wasn't just a girl and he a boy. They had been engaged for 10 years! As he had told his mother, the pull she had on him was strong, too strong.

And he had let his guard slip, thinking that he had found a way to solidify the alliance with Scotland, to force his father's hand and to let them be married. The window was so fleeting, the promise of permanence and inevitability growing, and he had let his heart engage with the possibility of her being his wife the moment it had opened. He remembered her excited embrace after he told her of the six companies headed toward Outreau, her smile when she said she would rather have hope with him than a certain alliance elsewhere.

Now Bash was laying in another room, clinging to life, and Mary had returned to the castle to accept Tomas' proposal. And that incredible kiss – the first and last chance he would ever have, considering her country's circumstances. A groan escaped as he remembered it. He had felt he had to take it, to know what it would be like to give his heart to her – but the pain he saw in her eyes when he told her to marry Tomas instead … He had caused that pain and it was all too much.

He ran his hand over his weary face, fingers splayed out over the shadows rimming his eyes. A knock sounded at his door. He opened it to his page, sent to relay an update on his brother's condition, as Francis had requested upon re-entering the castle.

"The bleeding has been staunched, Dauphin Francis," stated the page. "He is still asleep, and the seer says he may remain so for a few days yet. There is nothing to do but wait until morning and see if the seer's surgery holds."

"Thank you," said Francis. "I look forward to hearing how he is in the morning."

"Good night, Dauphin," bowed the page, closing the door from the hallway.

Alone again, Francis attempted to settle in for the night, hoping that he might get some sleep, but it was fruitless. There were too many pieces that didn't quite fit.

"Someone must have told the English that we were coming," he muttered as he wandered toward one of the windows. "But who?"

He heard a creak behind him, an indicator of a presence he had often known but never seen.

"Clarissa? Is that you?"

He moved over toward the passage and saw that she had returned the book he had leant her the previous week. She had set it on a small table and he spotted a piece of parchment tucked between the cover and first page.

Reaching over, he picked up the book and removed the parchment. It was a letter, removed from its recipient's rooms. Shaking his head at Clarissa's decided lack of understanding with regard to privacy, he slowly opened the page, taking note that the seal included the Portuguese dragon.

"Whose letter is this?" he asked aloud, scrambling to translate the Portuguese:

Remember our plan, dear son. In order to confirm our English alliance, you must first find a means of disrupting the Queen of Scotland's alliance with France. Offer her troops in exchange for her hand. The English are massing on the Scottish border to give you just the right opportunity. Tell her any lie necessary to secure an agreement. Tell her I am ailing. Tell her you are being declared legitimate. By whatever means, convince her to return with you to Portugal. It all rests upon you, Tomas.

Francis stood up straight, setting the letter back down on the table. He suspected Tomas had sent a rider on to Calais to inform the English that France was on its way to Scotland's aid. Tomas would ultimately betray Mary and her country to the English.

Could he possibly get word to her without anyone knowing? Tomas was certain to keep a close eye on her as his future bride. How could he …

As his eyes scanned the room, they came to rest on the passage entry through which Clarissa had returned the book. It might be the only way to reach Mary, but he didn't quite know how to find her rooms.

Grabbing a lantern and a cloak, he stepped inside the passage, knowing that it was dark and drafty, and hoped that Clarissa was still nearby.

"Clarissa?" Silence greeted him, but he knew she was likely to be listening.

"Clarissa? I need to get to Mary's rooms. Can you show me?"

He heard a shuffle off to his right, a shuffle that stopped long enough for him to follow in its direction until he came to where the passage split. Pausing, he heard the shuffling continue to his left, the slight movements echoing against the stone walls. The prince and his ally-in-hiding continued on for quite some time and Francis found himself growing impatient as he tried to remember each turn so he could find his way back. Certainly they must be close.

At the next opening, Francis stopped and listened, but there was no more shuffling. Holding his lantern aloft, he noticed the outline of an exit from the passage.

He took a long, deep breath and shook his head, hearing his father's voice – All this worry for a girl you claim you don't want to marry.

"Thank you, Clarissa," he whispered.

Minutes passed as he stood there, questioning the propriety of what he was about to do, wondering how he had come to slinking about in passages, trying to reason with himself that this was politics, that he wasn't just following his heart.

But the truth of the situation was that his heart was forever aligned with his politics. If the English succeeded in removing Mary from the French alliance through Portugal, there would be very little remaining to stop the English from taking France.

He pushed lightly on the entrance to Mary's room, but it creaked anyway. He heard Mary get up from her bed and move toward him.

"Clarissa? Is that you?" she spoke softly as she moved, holding her candle out in front, and spotting Francis as she turned toward the passage, she gasped, "Francis!"

And then she was in his arms. He could tell she had been crying, torn just as he was between what was best for her country and what she wanted. In spite of himself, he felt a smile creep across his face. He brushed a stray lock from her face and tucked it behind her ear. It was a small sign of intimacy, one he had never seen between his own parents. It was a small sign he hoped he would have the chance to show her countless times over the course of their life together. He lifted her chin with his fingers, encouraging her eyes to meet his.

"Mary, we must keep quiet. I don't want to alert the guards that you are not alone. We must still try to protect your reputation as much as possible. But I must tell you something."

"This way," she said, beckoning toward the changing screens and breaking her hold on him. It would be a good place to be out of sight for when her guards came to check on her. "What is it?" She pulled back to look at him, wide-eyed and still in disbelief that he had found his way to her rooms undetected. He breathed deeply before finding his voice, before he would shatter her world once more.

"I have been informed that Tomas' offer is part of an English plot." He saw her eyebrows raise at this new information, and her hand found its way into his, tangling his fingers with hers in a manner unlike what was required of them in public. "The Portuguese want the English alliance, and the English sent troops to Scotland's borders in order to force you to accept assistance from Portugal. They wanted to take advantage of my father's reluctance to honor our alliance to you and to your country. As soon as you are wed, the alliance will be confirmed, Scotland will be lost, and likely so will France."

She stood silent, resting against the wall.

"Mary? Talk to me," he spoke after a few moments, his voice faint in the silence. At his words, he caught a glimpse of a blush and a smirk rising on her cheeks in the candlelight.

"Those words tend to get us into trouble, don't they?" He smiled, remembering as he asked. She nodded her head in agreement.

"What do we do, Francis? If I tell Tomas I cannot marry him, he will suspect that I know something. He is preparing to send eight companies in the morning!" Her voice started to increase in volume and anxiety as the weight of what Francis had told her sank into her mind. She continued, "I mean, I cannot marry him! First of all, I cannot love him and second, he is out to destroy … "

Francis heard a knock on the door and he did the only thing he could think of to get Mary to be quiet: He kissed her soundly. The door cracked open and light from the hall poured in as the guard asked, "Are you all right, Your Grace?"

Mary, stunned and slightly dazed, responded with a simple yet feeble, "I am fine, thank you," her lips still only a finger's width from Francis's.

"Good night, Your Grace," came the guard's reply as he shut the door.

The two of them dissolved into hushed laughter, remembering just for a moment that they were still so young, that together they might still be able to be just a girl and just a boy. Francis peered into her eyes, realizing that he couldn't just remain there all night and that they needed some sort of plan.

"I will talk to my father in the morning and tell him all I know. There must be some consequence for your breaking the alliance with France and for Tomas being the one behind it – something that can be reason enough to keep you here until we can figure this out. Perhaps duty requires a tournament or some such nonsense. There can be no doubt now that the Scottish alliance is our best chance against England, and my father will have no choice but to cry foul and seek to nullify your engagement to Tomas."

"You are saying that I will need to pretend I know nothing of all this? That I have every intention of marrying him and that he isn't seeking my ruin?" She began to tremble, shaking at the thought.

Again, he folded her into his arms, steadying her. "It is just for a few days. We will find a way to right this as quickly as we can."

She nodded as she pulled away. His breath hitched at the sight of her beauty and his dawning realization of how much strength this young woman possessed.

"How is Bash?" she inquired.

"He is still asleep, but the bleeding has stopped. We should know more in the morning. Until then, we should both try to get some sleep."

"Do you know your way back?"

He chuckled, "I think so. If I get lost, I think Clarissa will help."

She gasped.

"Clarissa? You know Clarissa?"

"Another conversation for another time, dear Mary. It is late." He kissed her lightly on her brow before turning toward the passage.

"Can you meet me tomorrow in the grove we used to play in as children?"

He glanced back, taking in her earnest face. "I will talk first with my father and then I will wait all day if I must." A smile lit upon her face. "Now go rest, Mary. Good night."

"Good night, Francis."

She closed the passage behind him, as he began to retrace his route through the castle walls. He would like to remember how to return if he needed to in the coming days.

He reached his rooms and closed the passage. Removing his cloak and boots, he collapsed onto his bed, eager to speak with his father but also entirely exhausted by the events of the day.

As he drifted toward slumber, one thought consumed his mind:

She will never be just a girl.

And he slept.