So ... really sorry for the delay on this, guys. But let's face it; some of the subject matter in this chapter hit pretty close to home, and the timing of it - trying to work on it in December - is very emotional for me. So thank you so much for being patient with me. I promise I'm not giving up on this story, I'm just having to focus on a few real-life priorities first. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter (and refrains from throwing things at me). If you want more status updates as to what I'm working on (and sometimes even previews) feel free to follow me on twitter and tumblr. (Sometimes I even post fics exclusively on tumblr and just link to them on my twitter).

That said, enjoy. :)

Angie is the best beta ever.

United we are strong.

My sweet Snow,

I love you. I hope you remember that, as I'm sure it's been years now since I told you. I'm sorry I left you so soon, and I only hope you've been as happy as I was as your mother. If you're reading this, it's because you're to become a wife. Congratulations, my girl! I wish I was there to share with you words of wisdom, and watch you walk down the aisle, but we both know that was never meant to be. Instead, I'll leave you with this: love; love and be loved; be good and do good; and most of all, never lose hope. Together, true love and hope are the most powerful magic of all.

With all my love,

Mama

It's barely seven in the morning on a Saturday when the doorbell rings, and Pongo leaps off the bed and makes a beeline for the front door.

"Okay, boy," Archie groans. He rolls out of bed, donning a pair of house slippers and pulling on an old bathrobe. "I'm coming. I'm coming."

Pongo barks again, and when Archie rounds the corner, he sees the dalmatian is bouncing excitedly, tail wagging from side to side. Probably Marco, he thinks faintly as he adjusts his glasses. The man was always an early bird, showing up ready to work or talk before the world has even risen from sleep.

But when he opens the door, instead of Marco he finds young David Nolan, smiling sheepishly with a pretty brunette on his arm. "David." He blinks, then yawns. "What- is something wrong?"

Pongo pushes past him and prances out to meet the visitors. The girl drops to her knees to ruffle his ears, and he pushes his head into David's palm.

David clears his throat. "Sorry to wake you, but - we need your help."

Archie frowns. "My help?"

David smiles warmly, sharing a look with the brunette at his side. "Do you have time today to perform a wedding?"

At one point in time, Mary Margaret had given up all thoughts of marriage. True love was the stuff of fairytales, after all, and she wouldn't settle for anything less. But things change. And maybe 'marriage' won't be what it's meant to be - maybe it will be a moment of heartfelt vows and a few weeks of unrepentant bliss before an eternity of heartache - but it's hers now.

Ruby about screams when she hears the news. "About time! When's the big day?"

Mary Margaret bites her lip. "Today."

"Wait," Ruby frowns. "What?"

"We're getting married today," Mary Margaret repeats. "In … about six hours. And we need a witness."

Ruby blinks, then shakes herself. "Today?"

"Yeah." Mary Margaret bites her lip. "We also … kind of enlisted."

Ruby's eyes widen, her mouth agape. "Enlisted?"

"Yes. Both of us."

"Both of you," Ruby repeats, and follows Mary Margaret into her bedroom. "I shouldn't really be surprised."

Mary Margaret flings the doors to her wardrobe open wide, then glances back at Ruby over her shoulder. "What do you mean by that?"

"That you're - you," Ruby shrugs. "What are you looking for?"

"My mother's dress." It isn't difficult to find. After all, over half her clothes have migrated to David's apartment in the past months. The garment bag is tucked in the back corner, and she pulls it free to lay it reverently on her bed. "I know it won't be in a church, but-"

"No buts," Ruby cuts in. "You should wear it."

It isn't a typical wedding dress. Granted, she's following in her parents' footsteps to an extent - they'd eloped, with only two close friends as witness. The neckline is low, a remnant of her mother's era, and as she pulls the garment free of its wrappings, the ivory chiffon flutters against her fingertips.

"It's beautiful," Ruby comments softly.

"It's all I have left of her, really." Mary Margaret worries her lower lip between her teeth, holding the dress up to see how it'll fit. "This and her pearls."

"It's perfect."

Mary Margaret twirls around herself, smiling at the way the fabric catches in the air, until she feels something solid land at her feet - an envelope, addressed in her mother's flowing hand. My darling Snow.

"Mr. Collodi?" David pushes through the doors to the garage, mind focused on the mission set before him - witnesses. "Mr. Collodi? Are you here?"

"He's taking the day off." David turns to find Leonard stepping out from behind a Chevy pickup, wiping his hands on his coveralls. It shouldn't surprise him really - his friend has taken up the slack resulting from Sean's enlistment. He works double shifts at the garage, pulling more than his fair share of the weight. "What sort of crisis have you gotten yourself into this time?"

David bites back a swell of laughter, already anticipating Leonard's reaction. "I'm getting married. Today."

"Ooh," Leonard winces, though the corners of his mouth begin to wrinkle into a smile. "That's a tough one. Don't think even the boss can dig you out of this."

"I need a witness," David explains, leaning his elbows against the hood of the truck. "I was hoping to find Marco but you'll do." He grins. "If you're up to it, that is."

Leonard mirrors him, leaning against the truck as well. His misgivings about relationships are far from secret, but he's never been anything but a supportive - if a bit protective - friend. "You're sure about this?"

David thinks of his life before Mary Margaret, and comes up empty; as if his life hadn't even begun until she'd fallen into his lap. "I'm sure."

"Then it would be my honor."

They meet just before sunset, when the blinding summer day is giving way to the cool comfort of nightfall. There are five of them in all (six if Pongo is to be included), gathered together on a small footbridge in the park between Granny's and Mary Margaret's apartment.

David remembers that night - an eternity ago it seems - when they'd taken the scenic route, walking arm-in-arm through this very park. It was here, in the shadow of this bridge - when he'd teased her, and in turn she'd scowled and punched him in the arm - that he'd fallen in love with her. And now, with the summer sunset casting strands of orange and gold across her face, he falls in love with her anew.

"I do."

His mind snaps back to the present, to the brightness of Mary Margaret's smile, the warmth of her hands in his.

"And do you, David, take Mary Margaret to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

He doesn't hesitate, doesn't even blink. "I do."

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." Archie smiles and closes his bible. "You may now-"

David, however, does not give him the opportunity to finish; instead, he pulls Mary Margaret - his wife - into his arms and kisses her, his fingers caught up in her hair. It's a bit possessive, moreso even than the way he'd make love to her after watching the hungry gazes of every lonely man at the Rabbit Hole. She's his, and it isn't so much a matter of control as it is completeness. No matter what the future may hold, she is a part of him for all eternity. He sighs into her, and even as their lips part he leans in for another kiss. Maybe it is too much, he thinks, but then he feels the same longing rising within her - feels it in the breathlessness of her kiss, in the desperate hold of her hands on his jacket.

He's vaguely aware of Ruby scattering colorful flowers around them, of Archie's applause and Leonard's hoots of encouragement, but all he sees is Mary Margaret.

Leonard pops open a bottle of champagne, stepping aside as it bubbles over and splatters on the ground at their feet where Pongo laps it up eagerly. "When I was a boy," he says, carefully pouring the spirit into a single cup, "my mother would read to me the story of King Arthur's court and the legend of a cup with the power to grant eternal life." He places the cup in David's palm before handing the bottle off to Archie and Ruby to pour their own glasses. "We may not live in a world where life is everlasting, but I think we can all agree that the love between you will always be strong, true and eternal."

David takes one slow sip, and then passes the cup to Mary Margaret to do the same.

He can't help but kiss her, tasting the sweetness on her lips.

Mary Margaret doesn't know when the small apartment had become her home (not after living with Ruby for so long), but there's no denying it when David scoops her up in his arms and carries her over the threshold and inside. Home is an abstract concept, and in this moment she revises her previous thought; it isn't the apartment itself that has become home - not these four dusty walls, this rickety bed or threadbare quilt - it's David. David - her best friend, her partner, and now her husband. He is home to her - his embrace her walls, his warmth her hearth. He is everything.

And he's hers.

He presses her into the mattress, and she relishes the way it creaks, admires the contrast between the fine chiffon of her dress and the tattered edges of the quilt; there's beauty in the contradiction, just as there's beauty in his fingers tangled in her hair, in his mouth warm against hers.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, fingertips seeking bare skin.

"I'm yours," she replies, and feels a rush of excitement at that. She tugs at his tie, at once loosening it and using it to pull him down to her for another kiss. "And you're mine," she adds possessively.

He doesn't seem to mind, though, bending down for another kiss as she pulls off his tie and jacket, then works her way down the buttons of his shirt. "I've been yours," he murmurs, his lips still brushing hers, "since the moment I first met you."

She easily pulls the last button free and pushes the shirt off his shoulders."When I punched you, you mean?" she teases, though she can't help but to ghost her thumb over the scar on his chin. "And then you insisted on buying me a drink for my troubles."

"It seemed like the honorable thing to do." And then he's still for a moment, fingers caught up in her hair.

She's still too, half propped against the pillows with him hovering over her. It's become such a familiar sensation over the past several months - his breath on hers, the warmth of his body against her - and yet it's different now. She feels a shift between them - just as she'd felt the shift from dalliance to lover. She can't quite articulate it, because they've always been partners - equals - but it's more defined now, more concrete. Then, they'd take turns taking the lead, guiding the other along; now, it's as if they move as one. There is no need for words, their means of communication hardly more than a shared glance, the brush of a hand. She moves with him, not in response to him - arching into him even before he moves to unfasten her dress - and he does the same - ducking for her to pull his undershirt over his head. It's a dance; a choreographed masterpiece to which only they know the steps.

And then his mouth is on her - her neck, her breasts, her stomach - with sweet kisses, soft kisses and open-mouthed kisses that pull at her heart. "I love you," he whispers, then brands her skin with her name - her secret name - over and over again, "I love you, Snow." She feels him more than hears him, the words lost somewhere between body and breath; between shadow and soul.

The rest of their clothing is discarded on the floor when he finally moves over her, his skin warm and smooth against her own. She wonders if this is the hundredth time, or perhaps the thousandth; how many times has she felt his mouth between her thighs, how many times has she memorized the curve of his spine beneath her fingertips; how many times have passed and how many times are there to come. It could be a million, she thinks with a gasp - feeling the dizzying sensation of him pushing into her - and she'd never tire of it. A million stolen moments, a hundred million kisses would never be enough.

She moves her hips to meet his, in long, languid strokes that build tension in the base of her spine, then at a more frantic pace that makes her head spin and she clings to him for stability, her nails scraping down the smooth plane of his back. "Charming," she whispers, her breath ragged as she's on the edge of release, and then she's falling apart as he falls apart inside her - a million pieces falling and flying, caught in the tumultuous endlessness of the world.

She dreams of fire.

Fire and heat, alight on her skin and caught in her hair. There is no escape from this fiery room; no end to the flames that consume her, to the fire inside of her.

There is no end; just fire and pain and-

Mary Margaret wakes with a gasp, David's hand cool and reassuring against her cheek.

"Another nightmare?"

She nods mutely, still caught in the whirlwind of her dreams.

He doesn't ask anything more, merely reaches over to light the candle on the nightstand before curling back around her, his presence pulling her from the fiery room.

She finds her voice again, murmuring against his chest, "Thank you."

"Anything for my wife," he replies, and she feels a certain thrill of excitement at that.

"Wife," she repeats, tasting the word on her tongue. "I like the way that sounds."

Packing up David's tiny apartment is almost symbolic, he thinks; a new home for a new life, though he isn't sure to which transition this applies. Just as he moves from life as a bachelor to that as a married man, he changes from civilian to soldier.

They've had a few weeks, but they've put off packing again and again and again. It's a precursor to indefinite separation, after all, and they've done their best to push past thoughts of war and the uncertain future, insistent that the world not consume their brief chance at celebrating life as newlyweds.

Mary Margaret's voice interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to find her holding the service flag and candle from the window. "What about these?"

"What about them?"

"I was wondering if I should take them, or leave them with Ruby." She pauses to trail her fingers over the embroidery on the flag. "It'll need a new star though," she adds absently.

He covers her hands with his own, the flag and candle crushed between them. "Whatever you want," he says. "I want whatever you want."

She considers that for a moment before moving the keepsakes to a box set to go with Ruby. They can't take much with them. He's limited to what he can carry on his back. While Mary Margaret may have more freedom, he can tell there's a finality to her decisions. They're leaving a life behind - their life - and embarking on a new adventure.

She sniffles softly, and he turns to find her fighting back tears. "Snow," he soothes, rubbing her arm. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to do this," she chokes out. "I don't want to leave you."

It breaks him to see her so broken; only weeks after promising to ensure her happiness for all eternity. But there's nothing more he can do, other than pull her into his arms and whisper, "I know."

"You're packing?"

Ruby turns, stuffing a dress into her suitcase. "Just for the night."

Mary Margaret frowns and leans against the doorjamb. "But we leave tomorrow."

Ruby gives her a pointed stare. "Exactly."

Mary Margaret feels a twinge of guilt at that, thinking of all the time she's missed with her friend in these past months, the time that she's going to miss until the war ends. But beyond that, nothing is going to be the same again. She'd had the same thought the night of Ruby's wedding, and while she'd been a little too occupied to consider it on her own wedding night, the thought plagues her now. "Ruby," she sighs. "Please, you don't have to leave." Ruby looks unconvinced and Mary Margaret adds, "After tomorrow, this will be your apartment. I don't want to - kick you out."

"You aren't," Ruby replies, and pulls the buckles closed on her suitcase. "But I - I know what this is like."

Of course. Peter.

"Ruby-"

"Now, come on," she says, pushing past Mary Margaret and into the kitchen, where she pulls down their mugs - a red one and a white one. She looks sad, as if she's fighting back tears but she smiles in spite of it. "We've got about two hours until your husband gets here, and I didn't 'borrow' a bottle of schnapps from work for nothing."

It's their last night.

She tries to push that thought to the back of her mind - tries to remind herself that it won't change anything to acknowledge it - but she can't help but think that every kiss, every caress, every low moan reverberating from David's chest is the last. At least for now.

It could be months, maybe even years until they see one another again (if that, some timid voice in the farthest reaches of her consciousness dares to point out), and despite all attempts to make this special, to make it matter, it isn't enough. Nothing is enough; not music or candlelight, not silk or lace. Nothing.

There is nothing; only them.

She leans her forehead against his, rocking against him. His fingers curl into her hair, then into the skin on her hips, and she breathes his name, "Charming," again and again until she's standing on that dizzy edge, and then falling over with him - unafraid, at least for the moment.

No, she tells herself. This isn't their last night. Not forever, anyway.

Just for now.

David wakes early, feeling the gravity of the day to come weighing on him. There are checklists, pages of items he's meant to bring, that Mary Margaret is meant to bring, and they run through his mind, even if they'd double- and triple-checked them the night before, packing the items away into one neat suitcase and one over-stuffed duffel. For all intents and purposes, they're ready.

Yes, technically speaking they're ready to go.

But, he thinks, he'll never truly be ready.

Mary Margaret is still asleep, tucked close against his side while the sunrise lights her face in shades of orange and gold. He remembers the first night he woke next to her, how they'd been in this very bed, how the sunlight had played on her hair; how he'd wished to wake next to her every day for the rest of his life.

He isn't ready to leave her.

"David," she murmurs when she finally wakes.

He smiles faintly, pulling her hair from her eyes. "I love you," he says in lieu of 'good morning'.

There are tears in her eyes as she replies, "I love you too."

David's train leaves first. She's secretly grateful for this, reasoning that it will be easier knowing that she had every possible moment with him, that she could see him off, standing on the platform with everyone else. (Though she tries not to think of the after, of the hour spent alone waiting for her own train to leave.)

But for now, he's still here, his arm warm and real beneath her hand.

"This is it," he says, taking a long look at the rest of the crowd - at the tearful goodbyes, the handful of heartfelt reunions. She sees the conductor do the same - weary from watching too many farewells, too few homecomings - before he makes last call.

Mary Margaret is quiet, but her grip on his arm tightens and she blinks back tears.

David swallows hard. "I've - I've got to go."

"I know," she says, willing her voice not to break.

"I'll write to you as soon as I can," he promises, then chokes back a small sob of laughter. "And I know I won't be able to stop thinking about you."

She can't help but smile at that, and busies herself straightening his tie. "Wherever they send you - please, be careful."

"I promise."

He pulls her close, and she does what she can to memorize him - the way his head rests so easily on her own, the weight of his hands on her waist, his scent. In her mind, she stretches the moment into infinity, intent on staying lost here forever.

"Goodbye, Snow," he whispers against her hair.

She holds him tighter, unwilling to let him go. "Goodbye, Charming."

He kisses her, slowly and thoroughly, before pulling away. She holds on as long as she can, his fingers slipping from hers like waves against the sand.

There's an emptiness, a certain hopelessness in his absence that pervades her body - takes root in all the nooks and crannies David had called home, past all the walls he'd torn down. But there's a kind of acceptance too, a calm yielding to the way things are. There's nothing more she can do, after all, nothing more than contribute to the war effort in her own way, to hope and pray for his safe return.

"Snow!"

She turns, and there - three cars down - David is leaning out the window, calling to her.

She doesn't hesitate, throwing her suitcase aside and running as fast as she can toward him, even as the train's whistle begins to blow. She leaps onto the running board and flings her arms around him, holding on as tightly as she can.

There are tears on his face as he kisses her, then pulls away to stroke a tear from her cheek. "I love you," he says, then says it again - somewhere between laughter and a sob. "I love you."

"I love you too," she murmurs, and wipes clumsily at his face as well. "Oh, I love you."

The whistle blows again, and David yells over it. "When this is all over, I promise-"

"You'll find me," she says.

She's vaguely aware of the station manager yelling for her to get down, of the whistle blowing one last time, but all she knows is the taste of David's mouth on hers, and the sound of his final promise.

"Always."