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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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?"

"I just guess I thought this would spark some kind of memory," he admitted with a saddened smile on his face. "But I guess nothing is that easy. I'll have to work harder for those memories. Which, is not what today is about," he hurries to insist. "Today is about spending a lovely picnic with you."

"But I want you to remember," she promises, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "If something will help to bring those back to you - I want to do whatever I can. We just have to be patient, I guess. I don't think it's likely that they will all come back at once."

"I want to remember. You have no idea how hard I'm trying," he says, as if half-desperate. "I try everything I can, but no matter what, nothing comes back. It's...it's..."

It's the most frustrating thing he's encountered, but he can't even be sure of that because he just doesn't know what else he's faced.

"I know," she whispers, giving his hand another gentle squeeze, glancing down into the depths of her wine glass. This isn't exactly how she's pictured the afternoon going, between her moment during the walk and his desperation now, but she's not going to put the brakes on the picnic just because of that.

She sits up slowly, her hand slipping away from his, and starts taking more food out of the basket. "Did you want a sandwich?" she asks, trying to distract herself.

"I'm starved," he confesses, not having wanted to bring it up. It's her picnic and he's not about to ruin it -- besides, it seems like he's hungry all the time now, like he's making up for all that lost time when he was asleep. And, speaking of...

"Mary Margaret, how long was I in a coma?"

"Honestly?" She looks up, searching her memory for the answer, and she wishes she could give him something more definitive, but the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes there isn't a specific timeline. "I - as long as I could remember, you were in that coma. Months. Years, even. I showed up to volunteer at the hospital in Storybrooke and you were there my first day."

"It's just that my legs feel like I haven't used them in decades," he says, because they ache practically every time he's on his feet. "And the doctors say that some of my muscle looks that way too. But I don't look that old. I don't feel that old," he reasons. "So, I'm not sure what to think."

It does sound fairly strange, but he doesn't look any older than he had when she'd looked in on him that first day in the hospital. "One day at a time," she replies, nodding in encouragement. "You're already making such great progress."

"I wish it could be more," he says, utterly at a loss to describe how much he hates the lack of awareness. "I want to wake up and remember everything. As it stands, all I know is what I see here. I know about the dinosaurs and the jukebox and the strange city beneath us. I know about the kitchen and the strip club and this place. I know all the people and I know you. I just wish I knew how I know you, because I do. Mary Margaret, I have never been more sure that I know you."

"You do know me," she whispers, a soft promise. And even if he doesn't know all of her yet, that too will come with time. That she's almost certain of, even if the rest of his memories still have several holes in them. "And besides, compared to all the dinosaurs and the underground cities and magical clothes boxes - I'm really not all that exciting."

"You're the most exciting thing I've ever known," he replies, staring at her with utter fondness, absolutely and totally bowled over by the fact that she thinks she could be anything less. "Who needs dinosaurs when you've got a Mary Margaret Blanchard in your life?" he says, earnest to the last syllable.

She holds his eyes for a second before breaking out into a giggle, sheepish in its nature but also very flattered at its core. "I'm sorry," she replies, looking over with fondness in her gaze. "I just never thought I'd ever hear anyone say that. Ever."

"Why not?" he asks, confused as to why she wouldn't have. "Honestly, I know that you say we only just met, but you have to realize that I feel things about you that I haven't for anyone else. I love you," he says, saying the words swiftly and surely, but he means them. "Mary Margaret, I love you. I'd do anything for you, even lay down my life."

"Oh, don't - " She shakes her head at even the mere thought of something happening to him. Just considering it is enough to make her chest seize tight, as though there's an invisible fist closing around her heart and squeezing. "Don't say that," she whispers, cupping his cheek in her hand. "I don't want anyone dying for me. Especially not you."

He leans in closely, wrapping an arm around her back and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I'm not going to go out and search for danger, but you have to know that I'd do that for you. It's the honorable thing to do," he says, a charming and teasing smile on his face.

"The honorable thing," she echoes, her fingertips tracing the side of his face as she leans in, curling closer into his embrace. "No one's ever offered to do that for me before." There's another layer in her words, as if she's saying them without thinking, the same way she would if she'd said them before and is just reciting them from memory now.

He slides his fingers through the short strands of her hair, an adoring look on his face as he takes his time in seeking out every feature on her face, knowing to the very depths of his soul that he loves her more than he's ever loved anyone. It feels almost like true love, eternal and perfect. "Then everyone in your life has been an idiot until me."

"Until you," she echoes, her smile blossoming even more brightly as she tilts her head into the touch of his hands, leaning in to kiss him softly. "I love you," she whispers, knowing deep down that she's never said the words to anyone else and doesn't want to say them to anyone else, ever.

"You do?" David asks, slightly stunned by the fact that she's said as much. "You..." He breathes in deeply, before his grin takes over. Suddenly, he's giddy and he leans forward to kiss her. "I love you, Mary Margaret, I love you. I don't know that I ever want to be apart from you, not for a moment."