Chinese Porcelain
Summary: A short Mary/Francis fic for the prompt: picking up the pieces
His shoulders stiffed under her touch.
"Francis...?" Mary breathed.
"Did you hear that?" he said.
He'd gone completely still.
Mary shifted beneath him, running her fingertips along his bare back in a manner he found oh, so soothing. "Hear what, love?"
Francis jerked away from her touch and slipped off of her.
His pale eyes were frantic, searching.
"Francis?"
He leapt like a cat, kneeling over the side of the sofa. And let loose a soft hiss.
"Francis, love, what's the matter? You're scaring me."
He was shaking his head, muttering quietly to himself.
"What was that? Francis?"
Slowly, he raised his head, meeting her gaze. "Chinese porcelain."
"Oh."
"My mother is going to skin me," he said. "That was her favorite…"
Mary closed her eyes, thinking of a remedy. Or even encouraging words.
"I'm dead. Completely dead."
"Francis…Nostradamus."
His head snapped up again, his eyes wide and slightly unhinged. "What? What about him?"
"He knows things. Things like glue."
"Glue?"
Mary smiled encouragingly. "Yes. Come love, let's gather the pieces."
Later…
"Maybe if we paint over it…" Mary said weakly. "Or wrap it in cloth?"
Francis shook his head. His dull eyes were fixated on the thing, a sad patchwork of a once beautiful vase.
At last he sighed. Turning, he reached for Mary's hands, squeezing them. "Mary, if I am to die for this vase, I'd rather we finish the mischief that led us to my demise. Would you agree?"
Mary's lips curled at one end.
"Yes," she said. "There were things left unfinished."
She played with his shirt laces and undid them with a sharp tug. "We should attend to them right away."
Laughing, he picked Mary up. "Yes, but not here. I don't suppose Nostradamus would appreciate that. It'd be a poor way to thank him for his help."
Needless to say, Mary was very persuasive.
Afterwards while lying entangled, utterly spent, Francis said, "this is a poor way to repay his help, Mary. Though I can't say I regret anything."
"I wouldn't have chosen the bed for the sick and wounded if the matter wasn't urgent."
Francis smiled. "Indeed. It always is with us, isn't it?"
"We really should've waited the last time. If we'd have made it to our own rooms…"
"Hush now, there is no point lamenting. And I did mean it when I said I regret nothing."
Mary giggled. "Nor do I. And I must say, you attended to my urgent matters rather well."
"Oh?"
Mary kissed the stupid grin on his face right off, then moved lower to his neck, hot and damp from sweat. His sharp intake of breath was followed by a loud, piercing shriek.
Jumping up together and clawing at the sheets for cover, Mary and Francis twisted towards the doors.
"Nostradamus—" Mary squealed.
"We—this is not—" Francis stammered.
But it wasn't Nostradamus.
"Greer?" Mary said, forgetting momentarily her own compromising situation. "Is that a kitchen's maid dress?"
"It isn't," Francis said. Then noting the girls staring, he blushed. "At least not one that works at the palace."
Mary studied Greer, frowning. "Yes, I don't suppose the staff here show quite that much bosom. And that slit looks rather purposeful, doesn't it?"
It was Greer's turn to blush. "I should go."
She turned to slip out—
"Sorry I'm late, I was held up by the—" It was a kitchen boy. He poked his head in through the door. Stopping immediately when noting Mary and Francis. Then he went bright red. Like a great big tomato.
Mumbling formalities, he ducked out again.
Greer avoided Mary's eyes.
"Go after him, Greer. We will talk later," Mary said.
Francis held back a smile.
"Poor girl," he said.
Mary shrugged.
She caressed his cheek, smiling lightly. "Now, where were we, my dear Dauphin?"