The car rolls to a stop as it pulls up alongside a large stone chateau. The moon has risen, spilling silver across the snowy landscape. Festively lit, the house's windows beckon us to come inside and enjoy its warmth.
I adjust my limbs as the driver exits the vehicle and disappears to retrieve our bags from the trunk, and I focus my efforts on trying to awaken the figure slumped into my side with her dark hair splayed upon my shoulder.
"Mary," I whisper, tucking loose tendrils behind her ears and placing a light kiss on her temple. "Darling?" She turns away from me in her sleep, jabbing an elbow into my ribcage and settling back in for an extension of her nap. "Oof!"
"Mary!" I shout, abandoning all pretense of quiet with the new soreness.
She groans, my voice pulling her back from the far reaches of her unconscious state. A hand flies up to swipe irritably at her eyes and she directs a pointed glare in my direction.
"What?" she snaps. I try not to take offense and not to laugh. She's adorable when she's annoyed with me. After a full day of traveling, her exhaustion shows. I, too, feel the accumulated effect of too much time in cramped seats and waiting rooms. The time difference doesn't help either.
"We're here," I say gently, nudging her with my shoulder. "Look." My head nods toward the window. She peers out into the night and gasps as she spies the house.
"We're staying here?" Her mouth hangs open at the end of her question.
"Yes," I chuckle. If nothing else, the Valois family has its connections. "Isn't it something?"
She doesn't answer, but her hand reaches back to fold its way into mine. Though I'm beyond tired, I can't help the wide grin that spreads across my face. Ten days stretch before us – ten days of rest and celebration with no family but one another.
Ten days with my wife.
The door closes behind us and I reach out to turn the lock.
"I still can't believe they're letting us use the entire chateau, Francis!" Her eyes catch the light as we enter our suite. "It must sleep twenty, and comfortably – and, yet, it's just you and me and … "
Her voice trails off in awe and I capture her lips with my own. Her skin feels frosty from the brief walk of the grounds she insisted on taking, though we will certainly be able to see more come morning. In the hope that their warmth might transfer to her skin, I place my hands at the sides of her face and focus my attentions upon the heated meeting of our mouths.
My fingers move downward to fumble at the double layer of buttons on her coat and manage to unwind the scarf from around her neck. Her tongue teasingly flicks at the corner of my upper lip and I can feel the crinkle of her smile against my face. On the plane and in our car, I have acted the part of the perfect gentleman – but, now, for the first time in nearly 24 hours, we are finally alone and I plan to take advantage of that blessed fact.
It doesn't seem to matter that we have done this more times than I can count or that we have lived together for more than a year. The simple fact I am now able to make love to my wife brings a decided newness to our life together.
By the time we reach the door of the en-suite bathroom, I realize she has worked as intently on removing pieces of my clothing as I have with hers. We break apart, laughing as we drag in breaths to quiet the sting of our screaming lungs.
This will never get old.
Reaching over, I fiddle with the warm tap for the shower. Water sprays out, bringing with it a good measure of steam that quickly wafts its way through the chilled room.
From behind, I feel a hand come to rest just above the waistband of my pants, where it slips in and grazes my hipbone. The sensation of her chilled hands against one of the warmest parts of my body causes my lungs to seize and the intake of my next breath comes sharply.
God, I love this woman.
She drags her lips across the plane of my back, scraping her teeth against my shoulder blades. As she strains to reach around my middle and undo the button of my pants, I feel the warm press of bare flesh against my back. I close my eyes, trying to savor each nip and brush of her skin against my own – but as soon as she has undone the button, she slides the clothing toward the floor and any last bit of restraint I have travels the three and a half feet with it. I push aside the shower curtain and climb inside, pulling my laughing, beautiful new bride along with me into the spray.
On Christmas Eve, I wake abruptly at the realization that the bed next to me lies empty. Reaching out my arm to confirm, I slowly raise my still-drowsy body and prop myself up with an elbow to scan the room.
I don't see her on my first sweep, but I spy the smallest bit of inky curl atop the high back of a chaise at the other end of the room, where the curtains have been drawn back to reveal the majestic alpine landscape that surrounds us. Locating my robe, I wrap it around myself and wriggle my feet into the slippers on the floor at my bedside.
The room remains still as I lazily pad across to my wife. Daylight streams in through the large windows, brightly illuminating the tips of her ears and granting sparkle to her eyes as she gazes out on the world.
"You're very quiet," I speak softly as I approach. She turns her face to me and the dimples in her cheeks emerge as her mouth relaxes into a wide grin. I press a light kiss to her forehead and notice the room has grown cool as the fire's flames have diminished to a smolder. "Are you warm enough?" I ask, offering her a blanket before walking quickly to the hearth and stirring up the embers. I add a new log and watch as it steadily takes on the growing heat beneath it – intensifying into flame.
I take a seat at the foot of the chaise and lift a finger to relocate a loose curl behind her right ear. She grasps my wrist, holding my hand in place, and leans into it.
"I still can't believe we pulled it off." She sighs happily. "Our guests are likely still scratching their heads at it. Your mother's face!" she giggles. "I received more than one subtle inquiry as to the reason for the occasion." Calming, she continues. "But things are different now." Her thumb begins a firm trace of the lines in my exposed palm.
"We're married," I add – stating the obvious, but still reveling in the words. "My mother is no longer an obstacle." My fingers tease up the inside of her thigh, venturing under the folds of her dressing gown. A small "Hmm" escapes as her eyelids flutter shut. I smirk at her expression, feeling her twitch slightly at the contact between leg and fingertips.
"Nostradamus's prophecy no longer on the table." My hand stops halfway, fingers splayed against her smooth skin. Her eyes pop open, a bit annoyed at my pause, and I make no effort to subdue my laughter. It erupts loudly, momentarily disturbing the room's tranquility.
I love that I still have this effect on her.
I resume my ministrations, deliberately taking my time as they wind their way upward – leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their path.
"Francis?" I halt again at the hesitation in her voice, looking up to meet her question.
"What is it, Mary?" My question emerges hushed.
"It's just … " She flushes and glances down to my hand, dragging her thumb along the golden band I have no intention to remove and once more meeting me eye-for-eye. "I want you. I love you. I'm married to you." Her words mirror my own incredulous heart, that we somehow managed to make it thus far. "And I want us to be a family, to share a life." Her voice breaks off for a moment before searching my features to see if I understand what she is saying.
"I want a child," she speaks plainly, sharing her heart. "I know we've only just been married, but we've spoken of it in the past." Her voice begins to shake a bit. "You know I didn't have much to hold onto while I was growing up … " The shaking subsides and pure, rambling determination replaces it. "It truly will interrupt my career in every possible way, but I do – I want a child, more than anything."
Pulling her to my chest, I kiss her temple and breathe deeply of the scent that distinctly belongs to her. For the last year, I have had vivid dreams of little ones with dark curls and small mouths that break open with dimples when provoked to laughter.
"I want a child, too," I murmur into her hair. "I want a family, a future, with you – more than anything."
Drawing back, I loosen the knot of her dressing gown and find myself captivated by the manner in which the sunbeams light on her flesh and how the silky fabric settles and pools at her sides. One glimpse at her and I can tell she is as ready to proceed as I am, but I resolve to prolong her satisfaction. I suck in a breath, the air having retreated from my lungs at the mere sight of her.
Beautiful.
My one hand flits against her ribs as its counterpart teases just below her hipbone and then turns its attentions lower. Her back arches just a bit, the smallest indicator that she appreciates my work. I smile, moving my lips to distribute kisses along her ribcage. She shudders underneath me and inhales sharply, tangling her fingers into my hair as I arrive at the underside of her breast.
Her eyes closed tight against the sensation, she cannot see how delighted I am at her obvious pleasure in this moment. I nip at her neck and set my mind to the task of making her gasp and moan – for I intend to be a very good husband.
The sun having fallen behind the mountains hours ago, we arrive back at the chateau after a long afternoon and evening in the village. The spicy scent of evergreen boughs greets me as I enter our rooms – even before I have the opportunity to notice the candles lit throughout the space. In our absence, it appears the staff have both tidied our rooms and seen fit to decorate a bit for the holiday.
On our way into the house, Mary stopped off to chat with the kitchen about dinner and our plans for tomorrow, so I find myself momentarily alone. The last few days have been a wonderful respite. Away from work, away from home and from family, and having established our one rule – that our time apart should not be mentioned – the two of us have been able to rest and set some new traditions for ourselves. We have been able to get to know one another in a different setting.
This time away has given us a chance to start over again, to leave behind the last few months and the angst and the chaos and the fear – and finally to be united as husband and wife.
I set down our shopping bags, laden with small purchases and mementos from the day, and begin to unpack them. I hang the simple and festive pair of mismatched stockings we found in a market stall with care upon two nails in the mantelpiece.
Into her stocking, I slide a condensed history of Ste John de la Porte. I take the small green crystal earrings and stash them into the toe. Thankfully, I found a vendor willing to wrap each of the small items I bought throughout the day – all too well, I know Mary's impatience when it comes to gifts. Lastly, I slip in a small paper bag of toffee sold to me by a Swiss woman while Mary went into a milliner's shop to find some ribbon.
Finishing, I remember I will need to retrieve my main gift from Matthieu before the morning. Not wanting it to sit with my luggage, being an odd shape that would raise questions, I gave it to him for safekeeping upon our arrival. At the time, I keenly felt my nerves at their limit, knowing what lay inside the container – but any reservations I might have had over what I decided to give Mary for Christmas vanished when she shared her heart with me this morning. Still, I'm pleased by the results of my afternoon browsing in the village square. The smaller gifts will accent the larger nicely.
The clock reveals how close it is to 8 o'clock in the evening, which we have set as our dinner time while here at the chateau. I reach for the doorknob and look back over my shoulder at the fireplace. A smile tugs at my lips as I spy the bulges hidden beneath the blue and silver striping of the one stocking. I pull the door shut behind me and set my feet in the direction of the dining room.
Snow crunches underfoot as we make our way up the road and back to the chateau. Overhead, stars twinkle merrily among subdued snow clouds. The night lies peacefully still around us. Only the quiet tramping of feet can be heard.
Mary's mittened hand joins mine as we turn off the main road. She insisted on the ten-minute walk to midnight mass instead of taking the car. It's the same path we have travelled every day into the village, but we have never seen it quite like this.
She stops quietly in the middle of the road, taking in the serene landscape before her. A light wind stirs through some trees, signalling a drop in the temperature. Since we arrived, the thermometer has hovered just above zero degrees. I feel the shiver as it works its way through her body – whether from the cold or out of delight – and take note of the soft, light flakes that have begun to fall out of the sky.
"Francis!" she gasps, rapturously entranced by the descending white powder. Chuckling, I follow her gaze to where two large red deer stand gracefully in a moonlit clearing off to our left. The many points on their antlers tell me they shouldn't be provoked.
We watch them in utter silence until they move into the trees, the cold seeping into our boots and beneath our woolen layers. Exchanging tired smiles, we resume our hike back. A muffled giggle sounds from behind Mary's scarf.
"Do you remember the Christmases when we were little?" she asks as we walk.
I nod my head, piecing together the long-unaccessed memories. "I remember the three of us trying to break Christmas Eve into shifts so one of us would certainly be awake when Santa arrived. We wanted to see his flying reindeer."
"But we never made it through the night," she giggles again. "Your mother would find us Christmas morning, all piled together and snoring on the landing."
"Elisabeth got so mad that one year, when she woke in the morning and realized I failed to wake her for her watch. She was so convinced that was the year we would see Santa Claus. She didn't speak to me at all while we opened presents," I add, the details vividly returning to me.
"And then she opened your present last, out of spite," Mary speaks cheerfully as we amble along the drive. "She was so shocked you had bought her one of those little digital pets she wanted so badly." We laugh heartily, knowing that all three of us had spent Christmas evening together – playing with our new toys and sneaking cookies from the kitchen.
Coming up to the house, we knock the snow from our boots against the doorframe. Christiane opens the front door, having been tasked to stay awake until we have arrived safely. She ushers us inside, into the warmth where our skin might begin to thaw.
"May I take your coats Monsieur et Madame Valois?" She assists Mary in removing her lengthy scarf while I peel off my gloves and flex my fingers, which have stiffened in the cold.
Leaving our coats and boots downstairs, we climb the stairs to our suite on the second floor. Our short jaunt through the fresh midnight air has left me blissfully ready to crawl under the covers and sleep until morning.
It appears, however, that my wife has other ideas. Entering our rooms, she animatedly inquires as to whether we might open our gifts tonight. "It is Christmas, after all," she widens her eyes and presses her lips into a pitiful pout. "Please?"
"How can I say 'no' to that face?" I sigh, waggling a finger at her and pulling her close to me. "Could we just do one gift tonight and the rest in the morning, perhaps?" I counter, my limbs aching with the day's fatigue and my eyes periodically drifting shut.
"Okay," she accedes. "Let me see … " Bending down to rifle through her luggage, she locates a large, lumpy package. "Shall we sit by the fire?"
She moves toward the easy chairs set up before the fire and settles into one, a yawn escaping her lips as she curls her feet under her, the parcel in her lap.
I stoop down to pull her gift from under the bed, where I hid it while Mary chatted with Christiane after dinner about the day's adventures. I shuffle my feet over to the chair opposite hers and take a seat, standing her gift on its side on the floor. "Should we take turns or … ?" I ask, a bit confused as to how to proceed.
"Yes," she nods eagerly. "We should take turns. Here!" Before I can respond differently, she leans forward and thrusts a weighty package into my hands. "Open it!" Her eyes sparkle with excitement, her fingers fidgeting in a lively dance in her lap.
I pull the ribbon and grasp for the seams of the paper, wresting it loose from its contents little by little until the whole wrapping unfolds. Inside lies a leather album, darkly hued. I feel my eyebrows squeeze together in curiosity. Flipping open the cover, I recognize Mary's handwriting under a picture of us as children – sitting next to one another on her bed and facing the window at my parents' old home in Hartford.
'Francis and Mary, The Early Years'
Page after page reveals images I never realized were taken. Photographs of us visiting New York City and Central Park, collecting shells at the beach on vacation, keeping watch for enemies from the treehouse, watching the fireflies frolic in the summer dusk, studying math flash cards, cramming birthday cake into one another's faces because we saw a couple do so at a wedding and found it hilarious – and, of course, of us fast asleep and piled on the landing in our Christmas pajamas. Dumbfounded, I look up at her.
"Where did you … ?" The question dies off, my tongue unsure of the words it wants to utter.
She smiles, her eyes glistening a bit with emotion and lost in the memories as much as I am. "I had a few. Your mother gave me some to take with me to the trial, since I would be away from all of you for some time – and I merely kept them all these years. The rest," she shrugs and continues, taking a strand of hair and twisting it slowly between her fingers. "The rest she found when everything was being catalogued for the lawyers this fall, while you were gone." Her voice stills, falling silent for a moment as she sidesteps our one rule.
"It was a sizeable box, though I don't remember them taking so many pictures of us. Most of them must have been when we weren't looking or paying attention." She pauses, taking in a small breath. "Anyway, I made copies and I had a few framed to hang in our front hallway, but I thought you might like to have your own set." I look over at her, adjusting my eyes in the dim firelight and tamping down the wave of emotion that threatens to break free.
I marvel at the reality of this beautiful woman and the means by which she came back to me after all of those years apart – that we now get to start over, to begin a family together.
It has always been her, from the very beginning. No one ever stood a chance.
My wife.
"Thank you," I croak, scolding myself for the sound. I finger the last page and a picture of the two of us romping in the snow, trying to catch flakes on our tongues, catches my eye. In it, snowflakes hang onto the same dark eyelashes that held them only days ago, as we crossed between St John the Divine and Cathedral House. It is a striking image and I am forever grateful that, at some point in our childhood, one of my parents was able to capture it.
We sit amiably in the quiet for a moment, the fire crackling and sparking. In my bewilderment at the album, I realize I have forgotten my gift for her. I pick it up from its place at the side of my chair and gingerly hand it to her.
"For you, my love."
She examines the tube, clearly curious as to what it holds. Her fingers deftly pop open the endcap and she gently shakes out a very large rolled bundle of papers.
So she might read them in the firelight, she shifts a bit and uncurls the pages. I expect some explanation might be required, but I wait and watch her as she sits and studies what she sees.
"It's in Central Park West," I mention softly. She still hasn't said anything, but glances up.
"Tell me about it," she requests, rolling the papers back up and placing them back into the tube. Standing up, she crosses to me, reaches for my hand and tugs me up out of my seat.
We wander toward the bed as I report the details. "It's a townhome near the Park. I passed by one afternoon while you were in Sacramento and saw it was for sale."
Bedside, we quickly shed our clothing and situate ourselves underneath the covers.
"It's in pretty rough shape, but I got a good deal on the property. I've been speaking with my friend John, who works as an architect for a firm who deals primarily with renovating older townhomes. He helped me come up with those plans and will help with the project."
She slides alongside me and rests her head on my chest, tracing circles in my skin while she listens. "It will likely be a year before everything is finished, since we're not in a hurry, but it will give us somewhere a bit bigger to call our own – not as big as my parents' house, obviously – but bigger nonetheless. Our current apartment works for the two of us, but we've both made it clear we don't want it to stay just the two of us ... "
I feel her smile against my ribcage as I continue to ramble, having thought about this far longer than she's had opportunity even to engage with the fact I purchased a new home without consulting her. "We can keep hold of the apartment as long as we want, maybe even rent it out. My cousin Claude wrote my mother to say she'd be finishing up her contract at the end of next year and would be looking to settle down here in the city. Claude and my mother don't get along very well, so staying with my parents is out of the question, but she might … "
"Francis?" she cuts me off, her voice breaking into my thoughts.
"Hmm?" I tilt my head toward hers, listening for her response in the dark.
"Thank you," she mumbles. Her deep, labored breathing renders her statement nearly inaudible.
"Of course." I smile. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," she mutters, slurring the words as she succumbs to sleep.
My heart full and my body weary, it doesn't take long for me to join her.
Author's Notes: This being part of the Harbor Universe, it makes much more sense if you've read both "Harbor" and "Keep". Just a little fluffy something with some plot bridges to put in place for the next installment, which I still haven't begun working on. Currently, I'm engrossed in my master's thesis, so one-shots are about all I have in me. Let me know what you think! Happy holidays and Merry Christmas! :)
Also, in case anyone's wondering about the title ... there are a few reasons why I chose it, but essentially the temperature near the ground has to drop below 0 degrees Celsius in order for snow to fall as snow and not as rain. At this point in F/M's relationship, the temperature had to drop (read: angst in "Keep") in order for magical things to happen. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. ;)
Disclaimer: I do not now, nor have I ever, possessed any claim on "Reign" or its characters. Those belong to the CW, CBS and Laurie McCarthy. The plots and writing of the Harbor Universe are my own concoction. Some dialogue here is borrowed and adapted from 114/"Dirty Laundry" (including a deleted scene), and one line in particular borrowed from the show's pilot.