Part 5

Her face is pressed against the incredible softness of his dark blue shirt, his scent unlike anything she has consciously experienced before. Much as she'd like it to be otherwise, she can't recall his smell, something subtly and uniquely him, along with what must be wool, woodsmoke and soap of a kind she has never used.

Her arms are locked behind his neck and he runs his hands gently up and down her back, evoking the most lovely sense of safety and comfort that way. Wanting to make him feel the same way, she experimentally mimics his gestures, stroking his back with initially uncertain hands.

She must be doing it right, for he sighs in unmistakable contentment and rests his head on her shoulder. His face is close to the bare skin of her neck and when she continues her movements, he pushes himself lightly against her.

It's strange to have him near her like this, but in a wonderful way. Sensing that she can make it better still, she places her head on his shoulders as well, moving as close to him as she can, in the same way as he is holding her.

She shuts her eyes at the intensity of the subsequent sensations, feeling as if he is everywhere around her, enveloping her. It's like he's shielding her from everything she ever feared in life, while at the same time giving her so much wonderfulness she never had.

Two pairs of hands never ceasing their gentle caresses, he all but slumps against her once more. This time he is overtaken by something entirely different than his earlier despair, but that doesn't make her any less eager to comfort him. She brushes her nose against the side of his neck with a playfulness and familiarity which is completely unjustified, or at least that's what she would have thought an hour ago.

"Sweetheart..."

She stills after all, more because of the tone of his voice than the actual term of endearment he uses. He abruptly withdraws from her embrace, all tension which left him when he was in her arms almost visibly catching up with him.

"I'm sorry, Belle. That just slipped out. I shouldn't have..."

"It's all right," she says, and not just because she wants to banish this new pain and regret from him.

"I understand that you aren't comfortable being addressed like that. I'll make sure not to..."

"No, really. It's all right, Rumple." His name is still a strange thing to her, but not because of the - for as far as she can tell - unusual sound of it. But she most definitely is aware of the power it has, both bewildering and calming him whenever she speaks it. "I... I like the way you say it. The way it makes me feel. I can't remember, I know that, but... I enjoy being called like that."

She looks up at him through her lashes, wondering how she has grown so bold to talk like this, to express her thoughts to openly. The answer is right in front of her, warm brown eyes lighting up in reaction to her words, a tentative smile finding its way to his lips.

"And I enjoy calling you that," he says, taking her hand without hesitation and squeezing it lightly. "But the moment it starts making you uncomfortable, this or anything else I might say or do, please promise me that you'll tell me. I'll do all I can then to make an end to it."

"I will," she replies, looking at him in wonder. For as long as she can remember, no one has ever considered what she actually wants or prefers. And it's not as if she actually knew anyone but the nurses who shoved her meals into her cell and forced her to take her medication, women who never talked to her but for the shortest of commands. "I promise."

Just sitting here is a novelty, with no walls to contain her and with someone at her side who she can actually talk to. Being with him is more important than the lack of locked doors. To be treated like her comfort actually matters, to be treated as a human being, that is freedom.

"How often did you call me that?"

She isn't entirely certain whether she can just ask him this, whether it's appropriate to do so given the circumstances, but she can't help but wonder, no doubt as a result of the warmth that is spreading through her now that he has addressed her like this. The two syllables are echoing in her head, filling the emptiness there.

"Why are you asking?" Much to her relief, there's nothing but curiosity in his voice.

"I suppose I'd like to know as much as I can about us. The more you tell me, the more I wish I could remember. It all sounds wonderful and it... it hurts not to know. Or maybe, if you used to say it often... I hope you'll do so again now. I'd love to have that to look forward to."

He smiles a little again, that alone enough to let her know that he'll call her that as often as she'd like him to. But then he looks more grim, like he seems to do much more often than not.

"I didn't say it all that often. Really, we haven't been together for long and when we were..." He glances up at her, as if afraid again that whatever he means to tell her will anger her. She squeezes his hand again, hoping to let him know that way that she won't get upset with him for simply telling the truth. "It wasn't always wonderful. I couldn't always be the man who you wanted me to be. A good man. I knew that, and I tried, but..."

He shakes his head, lowering it, his hair falling before his face like a curtain. Intuitively, she pushes it back with the hand that isn't holding his, momentarily distracted by the lovely softness of the wild strands of his hair.

Honey brown eyes are looking back at her, gentle and so very, very weary.

"I wanted to call you that every single time I talked to you. But I couldn't believe that you really were with me, that you truly wanted to. And each time I said that word to you, it would be the moment you'd realize you'd be much better off without me."

"That's not much of a relationship," she breathes, horrified. She barely knows anything of such things, but this can't be right. How could they have been happy, how could they have been truly in love, if he doubted her feelings for him so very much?

"I suppose not," he rasps, utterly miserable. He withdraws his hand from her, as if he doesn't want to be touching her any longer... as if he is unworthy.

"That's not what I meant," she says quickly, his reaction only confirming her suspicion. She struggles to find the right words, anything to understand why he is so very sad despite their apparently previously confirmed love and their current reconciliation of sorts. "Rumple..."

He only shrinks further away from her at the mentioning of his name, but she won't have it. Scooting over to close the growing distance between them, she matter-of-factly takes his hands in her own again, as if drawing him back from whatever reason he's trying to hide from her.

"From what you are telling me... it sounds like we had something beautiful. Have. Because I can't remember it, doesn't mean that it isn't real. It isn't just gone now that I can't recall it, or is it?"

"I suppose not," he replies again, this time sounding more hopeful than ashamed.

"Whatever there was between us, it can't have been all that good if you felt like you couldn't be fully open with me, that you couldn't even address me the way you wanted to the most. I can imagine that there were things that you didn't want to discuss with me."

He is very quiet when she talks, just letting her words wash over him despite the obvious discomfort they cause him. It strengthens her growing awareness that the relationship which she seems to have had with this man wasn't as stable as he wanted it to be.

"I've got the feeling that there were a lot of things that we didn't talk about. As if we weren't open and honest with one another. It's... it's not as if I would know, the way I am now, but that doesn't sound pleasant to me. I don't think that's what a relationship should be like."

It's the strangest thing, really, how she gets all these notions and opinions in her head of things she never considered before, things she was never aware of before, just by talking to him. It makes her more convinced that what he is telling her is true, that there has been at least a while in which she hasn't been locked up in the hospital... a time in which she was free and content, perhaps even happy... a time she was with him.

She isn't capable of remembering it, but she might one day... or not. But even then, she may not necessarily need her memories to have happiness. Not while he is with her, promising her again and again that he'll do anything in his power to help make her feel better... to let her be unafraid and happy.

"I would want it to be different," she says quietly, brushing her thumb over his hand. "If we were to be together again, I wouldn't want you to be afraid of calling me exactly what you would like to. I would want both of us to be honest, about everything."

"Sweetheart, I..."

There still is a sense that she has no right to do this, that he isn't hers, when she lets go off one of his hands in order to brush the tears away which are welling in his eyes again. But the ease with which she soothes him in a way she hadn't thought herself capable of no longer confuses her. She simply focuses all her attention on cupping his cheeks in her palms instead of wondering whether she should actually be doing this.

"I barely know about the past and I don't know about the future. I don't know about us. Perhaps I never will, not like it seems that I used to. But we can try to make the best of it, can't we? To find a way, a good way, together?"

He nods weakly, eyes wet and bright, and her heart surges at seeing him like this, so much at odds with the broken shell of a man he was before.

But he isn't the only one who is flourishing beneath her very gaze. Talking with him like this has hope blossoming inside of her, an ever growing sense that there is a point to her life after all, that she has something beautiful to live for.

"I think I'd like that," she breathes, savoring her touch of him. Not only because he has become her anchor, something to hold on to in a world which is confusing and scary, but also because she has found that she likes touching him.

There's the ever present doubt, a fear that she can't live up to his expectations, that she's not truly whom he wants - whom he needs. But there's an optimism when he cups her hand which is holding this, grounding her further. There's hope in the way he holds her gaze and never lets go, looking at her instead of the woman she's supposed to be.

Her courage growing each minute she spends with him, she strokes her fingers along his cheeks without any hesitation whatsoever. She mirrors the soft noise of appreciation she evokes from him with the tender and still inexperienced touch, the combination of the roughness of his stubble and the softness of his skin making her feel in a way she has never done before.

He leans into her hand, seeking more of her touch, and she is more than happy to oblige. Her other goes to his hair, her curious fingers carefully carding through it, and there's a part of her of which she was never aware of before, a part which trembles in something very much unlike fear, when his eyes close and the volume of the noises which are coming from him increase.

She is unaware that she moves closer to him, her gaze intent on his face. It's intriguing, beautiful, so much more so now that there isn't a sign of anger or fear, when the worry and pain is replaced by hope and tentative joy.

It's a strange thing to know that she alone has caused these changes within him, but there's no denying them as he actually smiles a little when she whispers his name. The awe and affection in her voice when she does so should be stranger still, but knowing what she does now, it's almost natural to be with him like this, to enjoy his nearness like he so obviously cherishes hers.

Cradling his face, she marvels at the delight of experiencing something like this with another human being, at sharing this sort of connection.

And just like that, their current nearness isn't enough anymore.

She slowly closes the distance between them, her apparent hesitance caused by anticipation rather than reluctance or nerves. For the same reason she lingers briefly when she is right in front of him, savoring his uneven breathing and wide eyes.

"I'd really like us to find a way together," she whispers into the few inches of air between them, as if she can make her wish come true that way.

She has no idea whatsoever of the how of this, but that too doesn't appear to matter all that much when she intuitively – again, almost familiarly - brushes her lips against his forehead, the gesture one of gratitude and affection.

He shudders at the contact, taking away any last doubts she may have had on the effects she has on him. Wanting to take away his doubts as well, she remains right where she is for several delightful seconds, her eyes closed in enjoyment of his nearness.

When she withdraws, she settles herself next to him, her head on his shoulder and her hands in his, smiling broadly.

No matter when she'll regain her memories, no matter if she'll do so at all, she has found happiness now that she has him, and she's going to hang on to both of them for all she is worth.