A/N: This story will likely be my longest one yet and I'm really nervous that it's not going to make a very cohesive story-line. It's not meant to stand-alone from the show and I'm not going to add in all of the details that the show makes plain, especially for all of the other stories happening with other characters. It's meant to make the second half of season two just a little less heart-breaking and to give Mary and Francis some other motivations for their actions.

Mary took a deep breath. She'd had every intention of attempting a reconciliation with Francis earlier today. She had had the conversation with Greer that she felt she'd been selfish and had ignored Francis' pain so far.

Then all of this with Louis had happened. Why had she been so eager to assist him? How was it that she had been able to touch his hand? What was so different between him and Francis? Why could she not touch her husband?

When she had returned to the castle, she had been so full of hope, so sure that a new future could be pieced together as long as she kept this new perspective about her. But then she found Francis, Jean, and Lola asleep on the same bed. It wasn't even something that should have affected her, there was ample space between the two of them, along with their baby. This was clearly innocent, but it had still felt like he had ripped her heart out.

This should have been them. This should have been the two of them with their baby. It only made her feel like more of a failure in their marriage.

Then she felt angry.

The number of times she and Francis had done more than sleep beside each other in recent months was very few, mostly because he hadn't confided in her about his blackmail. She was so angry at him, and if he had just let her in, she needn't have been! What if one of those times could have resulted in her bearing a child? She knew it was irrational, just as linking him to her attack was irrational, but she couldn't shake it.

So she had reiterated her desire to lead a separate life.

Sitting alone, in front of her own hearth, Mary had been staring into the flames. The anger that had flared had since abated and all she felt sitting here alone, was, well, loneliness. In response to these feelings, Mary had dug out the letter from Louis. The one declaring his feelings for her. She poured a glass of wine and re-read the words. She remembered a time when she could read words from Francis such as these without feeling the strain of everything in their relationship accompanying them.

Mary sharply put the wine down, harshly enough that some of it slopped out onto the side of the table. Here she was, a married woman, reading the words that she should never have read in the first place, while angry at her husband. This could only end badly for her, and possibly for all of them.

She and Francis were strained. They may come out of it, they may not. It made no difference, they would not grow to resent each other, be unfaithful to each other as Henry and Catherine had. She would not allow it.

Which brought her to Francis' door at a late hour of the night. The guards stared at her, though they tried not to. It had been some time since she entered this room at this hour. Taking another deep breath, she raised her hand to knock, but thought that seemed only more suspicious, so she grasped the handle and pulled the door open.

Francis was not asleep, he was propped up on pillows on the bed, reading by candlelight and by the light of the fire in his grate. At the sound of the door, he looked over, clearly startled. Not many people would enter his room without knocking. "Mary? What is it?" The concern was etched on his face and poured out in his tone. For all of his faults, and everything that had gone wrong, his concern for her never wavered.

A weak smile appeared on Mary's face and she gestured to the furniture in front of the fire, "Francis, may we talk?"

Hastily closing the book, Francis scooted to the edge of the bed and stood. "Of course, Mary." He walked to her, careful to keep a distance between the two of them, and guided her to the small couch, while he seated himself as far as he could on the same piece of furniture. He looked at her expectantly.

Of course she would have to start, she had come to his room late at night and asked to talk. Unfortunately, the entire walk there, Mary had been talking herself into entering the room, not on what she would say once she got past that point.

She looked down at her hands, one of which still clutched Louis' letter to her, tightly and out of sight until such a moment that she chose to reveal it. With a deep, calming breath, she locked eyes with her husband. "Francis, I need you to know some things before I continue with what I really came here to talk to you about. The first is that I love you. I do, Francis." Tears shone in her eyes for all of the pain, all of their missed opportunities, for their current situation and how far it had fallen from being 'just a boy… and just a girl.'

The blood ran cold for just a moment in Mary's veins as Francis' hand came near her face. He must have seen the fear in her eyes as he settled it on the back of the couch behind her instead of touching her. "Mary, I know that you do. I've never questioned your love for me."

"I also need you to know that I've never been unfaithful to you. Since the day we said our vows, there has been no one else that I've been with," she paused, realizing with a sense of fear that she pushed down, that was not strictly true. The next words came out rather choked and strangled, as though her very being did not want to say the words out loud, "Of my own free will, that is." She had dipped her head to look down at her hands as she said this. Lifting her head again, she could see Francis about to interrupt, so she continued rapidly, "When I left with Louis that day, we sought refuge from the Vatican's soldiers with Antoine." Francis' eyes had turned hard. "We were introduced and Antoine set about explaining the rules of this," Mary hesitated for just a moment, trying to decide what to call the scenes she had witnessed, "game that he plays at some of his parties."

At this point, Francis did interrupt, "I've heard of such games, Mary. He calls out two people who he thinks have been flirting, or whose lives he wants to make more difficult, to go off to some scarcely secluded rooms. If someone there tried to pressure you into anything, Mary, they will pay. Subject of France of Navarre, they will pay."

Mary reached out a hand and placed it gently over his, seeking only to comfort the anger she saw growing. It was a similar movement to what she had done with Louis, as she had made no conscious decision to do so, and she was shocked when she realized what her hand had done. Francis was also staring at her hand covering his. "When the rules of the game were explained, I said it that was not an activity I should be engaged in without my husband's presence and Greer and I retired for the evening. All of this is in interest of being honest with you. I firmly believe that if we were honest with each other more often, the problems we've created would be halved, at the least. I don't want it to be able to be said that I kept important information from my husband and king."

Her voice was meek and small at the beginning of this conversation, but it had grown in confidence and volume as she vehemently plead her case to her husband, even as he had no idea what was happening or what they were really discussing. Unfolding the message and smoothing out the wrinkles, Mary began again, refusing to let the self-assured tenor leak from her voice. "I tell you all of this because what I'm about to show you may shake your trust in me. I want you to know and I want your level-headed advice on how to proceed. I received this message several days ago. I meant to think nothing of it, I meant to put it out of my mind. As I sat alone, brooding and having a glass of wine, in my chambers tonight, I took it out. I don't like to think of myself as the type of person that would entertain such notions and I won't be one who keeps it a secret. I won't allow it to put further strain on my marriage."

Handing over the slip of parchment, Mary watched as Francis' eyes moved down the page. She knew just when he had reached the last line. His entire form stiffened, all traces of love that had previously been in his eyes had fled in favor of hard anger. Francis ran a hand down his face, before letting out a soft scoff and setting the page down between them. "So, he wrote it, why didn't he leave? He clearly knew that was best." All of his words seemed clipped, harsh, to Mary.

"I asked him about it, he said that it was written the night of the attack and you asked him for his help in tracking down the attackers. He didn't have time to leave. And then he helped me to track them down and… remove their threat." Mary straightened her back. "I don't reciprocate his feelings, Francis. As I re-read his words tonight, fueled by bitter feelings toward you, I realized that I don't even want to give myself an opening to do so."

The light from the fire was reflected in his eyes as he refused to meet hers initially. Grasping one of her hands, the hand that had held his only moments before, he brought it to his lips for a kiss. "So you've come to lay out all of the reasons I should be worried about losing you, only to tell me not to worry about losing you? It's not a very convincing argument, Mary."