You Make My Stars Align
"You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars."
Mary was smiling in her sleep. She looked like an angel - his angel, Francis couldn't help but note, his lips turning up into a tired smile of his own.
He had just come back from a late meeting, and while he had hoped to speak with Mary, he was glad that she was getting the rest she needed. She had kicked all the blankets off, as she was prone to doing, and there was a chill in the room. Removing his sword and setting it down, he crossed the room to the bed and pulled them up to her shoulders. She sighed softly, something that sounded like his name leaving her lips, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead.
Francis watched her for a moment, thinking back to the beginning, when she had first come back to French court. He had been so adamant back then that he would not have these feelings for her. He would not love her, he would keep her at arms' length, and he would certainly not wed her until he knew that it was best for his country and for hers.
What a short-lived plan that had turned out to be.
How long had it lasted? A matter of weeks?
Looking back, he supposed that he had never really stood a chance of not falling in love with her, as much as he had tried to persuade himself otherwise. Mary was...well, she was Mary, and she had been so determined that they give this a chance. Within a matter of days, he had been hopelessly in love, head over heels.
Even after all that had happened between the two of them.
The prophecy. Bash. The blackmail. The secret. Mary's assault. Conde. The affair. The coup.
A frown tugged at his lips at that, threatening to ruin his good mood, but he pushed away the dark thoughts. The past was in the past, and it hadn't changed his feelings toward her. He did not have much time left and he fully intended to spend every last second that he had with her, not troubling over the past.
He loved her.
"Why would you want her?" His mother had once asked him.
"Because I love her! Despite everything that she has done."
Oh yes, he loved her. If someone had told him that he would eventually feel this way months ago, he would have denied it, but he would have secretly believed it.
If you weren't the future king of France, and I was just a girl, not the queen of anything, would you want this?
Yes. A hundred times yes, he thought, glancing over at his sleeping wife.
For he was hopelessly in love with her.
With all sides of her.
He loved just Mary. He was in love with her beautiful features, with the silky dark hair that framed her face and spilled out around her shoulders. He was in love with the scent of the lavender that she used in her baths. He was in love with the hazel eyes that reflected such tenderness and adoration as she looked at him. He was in love with her soft voice.
He loved Queen Mary. He loved the passion with which she ruled her subjects, the fire in her eyes when her country was threatened. He was helplessly in love with her determination, her stubborness, her fairness, her strength. She was the strongest person he had ever known.
Francis was in love with his best friend, his lover, his queen, his consort, his wife. He had never known he could feel so strongly for one person.
Rising to his feet and moving to his side of the bed, he blew the candle out and pulled the blankets back, slipping in beside her. He draped an arm over her waist and she immediately turned over, tilting her head against his shoulder - another soft whisper of "Francis" escaping her parted lips and causing him to smile.
He was hopelessly infatuated with her, but he would have it no other way.