princehonorable | (no subject)

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snow

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He's beginning to feel like there's a chance he'll see the makings of a real bed sometime soon. He says that every morning, but he truly believes it. With every passing day, his legs tremble a little less -- he can manage going a little farther -- and the pain doesn't last so long. He can take deeper breaths, he's remembering more, and it's all coming together to make him feel healed. David thinks he actually might be all right.

That still keeps him pent up in the clinic for most nights, just in case he needs a doctor's help before the morning's out. It gets a bit lonely, he won't lie. So, now, as the evening winds down, he has to start thinking about dinner again. Maybe he'll go to the kitchen and see if he can't strike up some conversation with someone else who doesn't have any plans for the evening.

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"I made us a picnic," Mary Margaret says, throwing her free arm out somewhat haplessly as she gives him a small sigh. "And now you know, but you would've found out in about one more minute anyway, because it's right up there, blanket and all."

He reaches out to catch her arm when she gestures in the way she does, a soft look of wonder on his face, like he can't believe this incredible woman before him would do such an amazing thing -- for him. "Mary Margaret," he breathes out, awed by her. "You're incredible."

She looks down at their hands as he utters the words, shaking her head slowly, her smile more bashful than anything else. "It was nothing, I just - I wanted to do something for you, since you've been working so hard lately. For us," she adds, the last two words slightly softer than the rest.

He wants to say that he's doing what he is for more personal reasons, but the truth is that he's struggling so hard to remember because he wants to remember her. "Mary Margaret, can I ask you a question?" he says, his voice wary, like he's unsure about bringing this up.

She looks up at the question, sensing the tentative quality in his voice, and lets her hand slip down until she's clasping both of his securely in her own, tilting her head up to face him directly. "You can ask me anything," she softly promises, frowning in curiosity.

"Do you know if I had a child at home?" he asks. There have been these recurring dreams that he can't shake. Every night, he feels like he wakes up to the sound of an infant's cry and no matter how he tries to remember, nothing is there.

"A child?" She's as surprised as she is confused, shaking her head at the question almost instantly. "No, I - I don't think so. As far as I knew, you were only married, but - no, nothing about a child." There are times, she thinks, when she wonders if it'll ever be her turn to be a mother, and when it will happen if it ever does.

"I have these dreams and I don't know where I am, but I know for certain that there's a child in my arms," he says, so determined that it's something that's actually happened that he almost believes himself. "A little girl, I think."

"A little - " She doesn't know why it suddenly gets so difficult to breathe, only that it does, as though she's torn between crying and gasping for air, the feeling of grief so instant that it's almost enough to bowl her over, and soon it's her who's leaning on him for support, needing the safety of his embrace to fill an emptiness that seems too overwhelming to bear.

He doesn't know what's made her so vulnerable suddenly, but what kind of gentleman would he be if he weren't there to support her? He wraps his arms tightly around her, cushioning her in closely as he soothes her, closing his eyes and letting instinct take over. "Shh," he murmurs. "Shh, it's okay. She's safe. She's safe."

She takes a deep breath, gives herself a second to lean in against him, letting his words wash over her until she feels the truth in them, believes them for herself. When she pulls back, it's with a nervous chuckle, and she swipes a finger under her eyes. "I don't know where that came from. I'm sorry. You came out here for a surprise picnic, not to have me blubbering all over you."

"I don't mind," he says, as blissful as he's ever been. His hand is still pressed to the small of her back and he stares at her like she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. "But, why did you react like that, Mary Margaret?"

"I - I don't know," she confesses, feeling more than slightly at a loss. "I don't know what happened. It was like - I was someone else for a second. Someone with a child. It was like I could feel her in my arms just then. I've never felt anything like that before."

"A little girl, and she's crying," he says, because that's what he's been dreaming about. There is a baby girl in his arms and he knows, more than anything, that he has to protect her. David refuses to let Mary Margaret go far, keeping his close hold on her. "Why do I remember these things if they aren't true?"

"And why - " Why am I remembering them too? she wants to ask, but her voice falters as she turns her head, struggling to bring herself back to the point of self-control even while she's resisting the urge to fall into his arms, to seek comfort there. She doesn't even know what she would be needing comfort for.

He doesn't want this to degenerate into something maudlin, but David feels like he's already accidentally condemned them to such a path. "I think we need that picnic more than ever," he says gently, wrapping his arm around her waist to support her. "Especially if you brought wine."

"Are you even allowed to be drinking wine when you're still technically a patient?" she asks, grinning loosely, the moment briefly forgotten - but not entirely. She reaches up, gently brushing fingertips against the scar that runs across his chin, intently studying it.

"My legs need to heal," he insists, because he's not taking any drugs for his issues. "Besides, after the moment we just had, wouldn't you say that we need it more than ever?"

"Maybe you're right. And maybe there's wine," she replies, with a sideways glance. "It's right up here." They round the corner, and she's more than a little relieved to see the spread still intact, the picnic blanket folded up and resting on top of the basket she's left there - filled with sandwiches, fresh fruit, a bottle of wine and some other assorted food for snacking on. She breaks away from him briefly to spread the blanket out, smoothing it over the ground first. "Sit, rest your legs. I can get everything ready."

He's breathing somewhat heavily by the time they reach their destination and he's frustrated by his body's inability to keep up the pace. He knows that he can do this, but the sheer reluctance of his muscles to improve is frustrating on the level that his lack of memory lives on. Settling on the blanket, he sprawls out, never taking his eyes off of her. "So, is this what you would've done for me on that day? Valentine's Day?"

If she notices the way he's breathing, the manner in which he sprawls out on the blanket to relieve the soreness in his legs, she doesn't comment on it, gently kneeling on the blanket next to him as she starts going through the basket, taking out the wine glasses first. "I don't know," she replies, trying to feign innocence and likely failing miserably. "Maybe. Is this something you would've liked for me to have done for you on Valentine's Day?"

"I would've preferred anything but being a witness to the strange madness that seemed to seep into people's brains, that day," he admits, arranging himself on the blanket to try and look a little more dignified. "It wasn't a pretty show," he confides.

She passes him a half-filled glass and makes herself comfortable with her own, cradling the glass low between her hands as she glances into its contents and tries to recall more of the details of that night. "I think I kept walking around asking people if they would make snow angels. Sand angels. Snow angels in the sand, or something like that. I can't remember, but I'm pretty sure that was the worst of it."

"Well, if that's all you did, I'm sure they forgave you instantly," he assures, a fond smile on his face. "After all, you're Mary Margaret. I don't think that anyone could ever find cause to be mad at you for too long," he says, taking the glass and sipping at it. It tastes like nothing he's had before, which is wonderful -- but at the same time, depressing. He'd been somewhat hoping it would trigger a memory.

"I don't know how charming a behavior it was," she teases, choosing the word that immediately springs to mind in regards to him. She doesn't even question it at this point, not anymore. What she does do is note the change in his expression, the small frown that rises, and she leans forward to stretch out beside him, propping herself up on one elbow. "Something wrong?"