Same story, second verse. Let's look at it from Jefferson's POV.
Jefferson woke up in a cold sweat. He didn't bother trying to recall the dream that woke him—home, Grace, Regina's trick, Wonderland, off with his head—they all hurt the same way. He didn't remember going to bed—it wasn't often that he would make it there, instead just slumping down wherever he was and closing his eyes when he could no longer keep them open. More often than not, it would be in the hat room.
The hat room. That's where he should be now. He should be there, he should be working, he should be making a hat so they could go home. They didn't work, they never worked, but they were all he had. His only chance. He sat up and threw off the covers, distantly noting that he'd apparently taken the time to change into his pajamas and wondering why before returning his thoughts to the hats. There must be something he could do to make them work. He could make them spin. He could make them work. He could take his Grace and go back to where they belonged to each other. What hadn't he tried yet?
He switched on the lights in the hat room and paused at the telescope. No, he wouldn't be able to see her tonight. Not at this hour.
The table was neater than he remembered leaving it. No matter. He grabbed cloth, scissors, pins. Soon he was moving on automatic, flying fingers long since numb to the occasional slip of a pin or a blade and the trickle of blood. Magic often used blood anyway, didn't it? It couldn't hurt. It didn't hurt. But it didn't work.
He didn't know any incantations, but he doubted they would work here anyway. This stupid, wretched, cursed world without magic. His body was quivering, humming, shaking with the need to make it work this time, get his Grace and get away from this place, and he poured those thoughts and desires into the hat. His fingers could complete the hat on their own, and his brain tried to focus that desperate energy, hoping it would be strong enough to awaken the magic the hat should have. Just once. Just one. Only one had to work. But it had to work, it had to work, it had to spin, it had to work!
Distantly, he heard a door open behind him. The Queen's guards would sometimes let him be if he ignored them, and he didn't have time for them anyway. He had to get the hat to work. Get it to work. Get it to work, get it to work!
"Papa?"
He froze at the sound of that soft voice, scissors falling from suddenly limp fingers to clatter on the table with an unnaturally loud sound. For a long moment he didn't move, afraid to turn around but knowing he had to. He heard her voice sometimes, in the depths of his madness, imagined she was there. She never was. He couldn't stop himself from looking anyway.
Slowly he turned. His eyes went wide.
"Papa, are you alright?"
She was there. He forgot how to breathe as terror and joy fought for dominance in his soul. She was there! She was really there! But she couldn't be. No, she couldn't be, she was gone, and he was just breaking more, seeing what he wanted to see and could never have.
"Papa?" she asked again, and she sounded uncertain now, scared, and illusion or not, he couldn't let his darling Grace be frightened.
"Grace?" he rasped. He wanted to ask what she was doing here, tell her not to worry, ask her why she came, did she remember him, did she forgive him, don't cry, sweetheart, it's okay. The words wouldn't come, got lost in his throat, and desperately, before she could go away, he surged forward and took her in his arms.
She didn't vanish or shimmer away or turn to smoke, and he hugged her tightly. He hadn't held her in twenty-eight years, and he didn't care that she wasn't really there. "Grace," he whispered, choking on the word. "My Grace."
When she continued not to vanish, he pulled back and knelt in front of her, cupping her face in his hands and staring into those dark eyes he'd missed so much. He took her head and ran his fingers down through her hair, soft as he remembered. He grabbed her shoulders, moved his hands down her arms. She felt so solid. So real. So very much there. "You're here," he rasped tentatively. Would it stop being true if he said it? "You're really here?"
"I'm really here, Papa," she said, flinging her little arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.
He hugged her back fiercely, pulling her head close to his chest and burying his face in her hair. It tickled his nose and smelled like flowers and soap, and the reality of her presence hit him like a sledgehammer and he choked on a sob and held her tighter. Tears that had been burning behind his eyes spilled out hot and salty, and he couldn't have stopped them if he'd wanted to.
"Papa, what's wrong?" she pleaded. He said nothing, couldn't say anything, so he just held on to her. She kissed the side of his face. "Please tell me, Papa. What's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter, baby," he assured her, pulling back again so he could look in her eyes. They looked so much like her mother's. "I'm just so happy to see you." His voice was rough, catching over lumps in his throat he couldn't swallow down. A lock of hair fell across her face and he brushed it to the side, tucked it behind her ear. "I've missed you so much," he whispered. His tears burned hotter, guiltier, as he thought of why he'd had to miss her in the first place, why she'd spent the last twenty-eight years calling someone else her father. They would have both been cursed to forget if he'd stayed with her, but at least they would have been cursed together. "I'm sorry for leaving you, Grace, I'm so sorry!"
"I know, Papa," she replied. Softly. Gently. Not angry at all. She reached up one hand and brushed the tears from his cheek with her thumb. "I'm not mad at you," she said sincerely.
His heart swelled to hear her call him 'Papa'. She'd said it already, but was sinking in now. Now she was real. Now she was back. Now she was his again. He grabbed the hand she had reached up to his face, pressed it softly against his cheek. "You remember me?" He didn't want to push his luck, but he had to know for sure.
"Of course I do, Papa," she said warmly, and he saw some sort of realization dawn in her eyes. "The curse is over now, remember?" she asked.
What? That couldn't…Was it really? He didn't remember. He was alone, he was cursed and the hats weren't working. They never worked. He was always alone and they never worked. But she remembered. She remembered, and he didn't. Why didn't he remember?
Sorrow and sympathy furrowed across Grace's brow. "A month ago," she continued softly. She reached up a hand to brush down his wild hair. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed deeply, leaning into her touch as she smoothed down the agitated locks. "You came and found me at the school bus," she said, and something stirred behind the loss and guilt and the frenzy and the hats.
He'd been hiding, afraid. Would she know him? Would she hate him?
"Then you hugged me tight and carried me for a whole block 'til we got to your car," she said, dark eyes pleading with him to remember.
Her arms around his neck and her weight in his arms had been so right, he'd never wanted to put her down.
"You brought me home," she continued quietly. Her voice trembled, and a sick feeling twisted in his stomach as a tear trickled from the corner of her eye. "And we finally had our tea party. Remember?"
And he did. The way she'd laughed and clung to his side. The way she kissed him and hugged him and called him 'Papa' again, and the way it warmed his soul. The way she'd squealed with delight at the sight of her new room. The way they'd turned this dark and sad old house into a home.
"Don't cry, Gracie. Don't cry," he soothed. He pulled her into a warm hug, not the desperate, drowning grasp of a man in need this time, but the gentle, comforting arms of a father.
"I remember." He sighed deeply. He still had his bad moments, when she was asleep, or at school, or sometimes just in another room, when the little mad voices would come whispering in his ears and he would forget for a moment. He would scream, or pace, or rearrange the hats or throw things, talking to himself to drown them out until they went away and he was sure it was all real.
It had never been this bad, though. And never in front of Grace. He kissed the top of her head gently. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Shame rose to color his cheeks, to darken his eyes.
She pulled back and looked into his eyes and smiled. "It's okay, Papa," she assured him. "You don't need to be embarrassed about it," she added.
He laughed in surprise. She'd gotten very good at reading him before he went away. In the last month, she'd only gotten better at it. "You really do know me well, don't you?"
"I really do." She smiled, a hint of smugness playing behind her eyes. He watched them drift over to the desperate, half-finished attempt at a hat on the table and the smile faded. She traced a soft finger down from his jaw, watching it until it landed on the scar around his neck. It felt tender and raw still, even under that gentle touch.
"It's okay if you forget sometimes," she told him, hovering a finger over the scar, as though she knew it still hurt. "You have a lot to try to remember, and I know a lot of it's not good." He'd held nothing back from her when they reunited and she asked where he'd been, determined to have no more secrets between them. She knew about the hat and the portal jumping. She knew about his being tricked into Wonderland and being captured, and though he'd tried to avoid some of the gory details, she knew about his torture at the hands of the Queen of Hearts. She knew about his curse to remember, locked up alone in this big house, and the long, slow tumble into insanity that followed. She knew.
She looked back up from his neck, and her face was wavering behind the tears that blocked his vision. "But it's good now, Papa," she said confidently. She smiled. "You found me, and if you forget again, I can find you."
He smiled, something warm purring happily inside his chest, and he cupped her face gently and pulled her forward to kiss her forehead. "My darling, Grace," he said softly. He hugged her closely and she hugged him back, and he smiled as her small hands rubbed circles on his back. "How I survived twenty-eight years without you, I'll never know." There had been nights when the madness, the loneliness, the curse of being so close and yet so very far had been too much, and he'd stood by the telescope contemplating the large, sharp scissors in his hands. He'd even unbuttoned his shirt, felt the cold metal pressed against the space between his ribs and thought about how much it would hurt, how nice it would be to feel a different kind of pain before not feeling anything.
But he never did. He'd promised never to leave her again. Even if she didn't know he was there, he would keep that promise.
"I love you, Papa."
He sighed deeply, happily, and some of the pieces the madness had broken were stitched back together. "I love you too, Grace."
For a long time, they didn't move, her standing and him kneeling on the soft carpet, simply holding each other. Not being alone.
"Alright, Papa," she said at last, pushing him up from where he'd started to lean on her a little heavily. "I think it's time for you to go to sleep."
He laughed. "Are you putting me to bed, young lady?"
"It is past your bedtime," she replied, sounding a great deal like her mother.
He smiled, stood, tweaked her nose. "Yours too, I think."
"Come on," she said imperiously, grabbing his hand and dragging him from the room. He was perfectly capable of putting himself to bed, should probably be putting her to bed, but he followed with a smile. He'd missed her so much.
In his room, she pulled one of his blankets from the tangle on top of his bed and shoved him in the direction of the soft recliner in the corner. She turned on the lamp, turned off the light, then rushed across the carpet and clambered up into his lap. He looped an arm around her waist to keep her from slipping off, and she pulled the blanket up over them and tucked it in down the sides.
"There," she declared. She looked up at him and wrapped her arms around his chest. "I don't think you'll forget again tonight."
He often did in dreams, though they faded in the mornings. And the longer she was here, the less frequently the dreams came. "I don't think I will either," he agreed. And he wouldn't. Not tonight. He kissed her forehead, reaching an arm out to tug on the lamp string and turn the light off before wrapping it back snugly around her.
She nuzzled her head sleepily into his chest like she did when she was little, and he swallowed down a catch in his throat. "I'm glad you found me, Papa," she said softly.
"I'm glad you found me too, Grace." He'd needed it just as much as she had. Maybe even more. He shut his eyes, yawning and settling back in the chair, keeping his arm tight around his daughter. "I'm glad you found me too."